Use Your Illusions
by wandering-witches
Summary: 'Kingmaker' verse Pt.1 \\ S6 AU post 6x11 \\To defeat Raphael, Castiel employed a desperate, dangerous gambit which backfired in the worst way & must turn to the Winchesters for help. Dean comes to understand he doesn't have all the time in the world to accept his 'stupid girly feelings'. And Sam finds himself, quite literally. Every possible wall comes tumbling down, for everyone.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Use Your Illusions  
><strong>Fandom:<strong> Supernatural  
><strong>Rating:<strong> R overall  
><strong>Warning(s):<strong> blasphemy, violence, language, sex (slash)  
><strong>Spoilers<strong>**: **Up to and including the promos for 6x19, "Mommy Dearest"  
><strong>Pairing(s<strong>**):** Dean/Cas, past Dean/Lisa, past Sam/Eve (promise it'll make sense once you start reading)  
><strong>Authors: <strong>wanderamaranth and quantum_witch

**Summary:** In trying to defeat Raphael's armies, Castiel has employed a desperate and dangerous gambit which backfired in the worst way, and now must turn to the Winchesters for help. Meanwhile, Dean slowly comes to understand he doesn't have all the time in the world to accept his 'stupid girly feelings'. And Sam finds himself, quite literally. Every possible wall comes tumbling down, for everyone.

**Disclaimer:** This is a work of fanfiction. No profit is being made from the creation, promotion, or publication of this work of fiction. We're not taking ourselves too seriously, and don't expect you to, either.

**NOTE:** This is a S6 AU set post 6x18. This was fully outlined prior to 6x19 airing and is based on what we thought would be a cool direction for the show to go, and is based on nothing except spoilers, photo stills, and our own pure speculation from 6x18 onward. While some things are similar to what has aired since then (dialogue, scenarios, etc.) that's just the result of us being excellent at speculation. Either that or physic. (Originally published 4/29/2011 on wanderamaranth's LJ)

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><p><span>Grant's Pass, Oregon<span>

_He'd Fallen for a smile._

_He remembered that now. Her smile, and the desire to escape the drums of war had pushed him over that edge, had made him think that perhaps Heaven was not all it should be. _

_But it was mostly the memory of her smile._

_She was God's first feminine creation. She'd been made as a plaything, but she was not a tamed beast. Lilith was fierce, immovable, one of the most powerful of His creations ever crafted, and she had willingly abased herself at His feet. Such a mighty creature subjugating herself to His will had been enough to amaze, to inspire awe, in all angels. _

_It had not, though, been enough for Him. _

_When He'd tired of her, He'd remade her into flesh and tried to pass her off as the other half of his human experiment. To think that Lilith would be satisfied with being cast aside, to being told that her mate was Adam, God's clumsily animated bit of clay, was ludicrous. It had not surprised him when she fled the Garden. _

_Afterwards, the archangel had tried to follow the carrying-on of God's humans, he did. He saw the formation of the second Lilith, saw how Adam (ungrateful creature that he was) refused her touch after witnessing her creation. He saw how Lucifer lead that Lilith away, how he whispered into her ear and promised her things that were beyond his power to grant her, saw how Eve was then made. Heard how the Host had sung, celebrated the fact that their Father had finally managed this, making his man a suitable mate. _

_**Is that where the phrase third time's a charm came from?**_

_The question came from a different corner of himself, and he smiled. _

_**Yes**, he thought, and that curious part that he still held, the **Sam** part, smiled as well. _

_**Sam**, he mouthed, trying it out. Mentally, he nodded. Yes, that's his name. _

"Samael," Lilith—no, _Eve_, he reminded himself—breathed. He blinked and shook his head, trying to clear what seemed to be plaster dust from his eyes. Somewhere above him, someone was screaming, long and wordlessly.

_**Samael,** he thought, rolling it around in his mind. Yes, that was his name, too._

Eve took a step towards him, hand outstretched, a look of relief on her face. And then she smiled. It was the same smile she'd given him on their first proper meeting.

_He'd tried to follow the fallacies of the newly-burgeoning human race as they were born, bred, and died, but it was Lilith (it was too difficult to think of her as Eve just yet) who'd fascinated him. _

_Generations of humans passed from the earth, but not she. Lilith had not partaken of the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge; she was outside punishment for that particular wrong, and so lived on and on. _

_He'd not known that he'd craved a connection with another creature until her. As an archangel, he'd been created to be fairly autonomous. Yet as he watched her, down there on earth, wandering, he could not help but wonder if she had been created the same. If she was content in her solitary existence, floating with no clear destination, no place to call her own._

_So he went to earth to find out. _

_Where most of God's creations would have blanched at even his most modest representation of his true form, Lilith had not. He'd appeared before her, and she'd smiled._

_He knew then that he was lost._

"It is you," Eve said, taking another step towards where he was sprawled out upon the ground. His chest burned; it was hard to breathe. "Oh, Samael, look what has been done to you."

_He'd left Heaven, had taken Lilith as his wife. But then God stepped in._

_He told Samael that he had to choose. And so help him, he had. He'd locked Lilith away, sealed her within and outside herself, and buried her bones under the Mediterranean Sea. Doing so left him essentially human, his grace so weakened that he'd never be an archangel again. He was just a regular angel, a foot pad, a shadow of his formal self. He'd essentially been castrated, and for what?_

_He'd never be trusted in any of the earth-bound garrisons, not after having taken human wives. It took several millennia, but Samael became resentful, restless. When the Heavenly Host began to sing of the birth of the Righteous Man, Samael looked down with the other angels, saw the joy of John and Mary Winchester, and wanted to feel with them, to bask in their happiness just as his brethren were, to hear his kin sing words of love for the child, one of God's very special ones. _

_Instead, all he could hear was the renewal of the drums of war. _

_Something in him broke. He was heartily sick of it all._

_So he reached inside himself, grasped his grace, and pulled._

"Sammy!" Dean Winchester screamed brother. He could see the man straining towards him, fighting the monstrous arms that held him back.

_Sammy. His thoughts wavered. **Sammy**. Yes...yes, another one of his names. _

_If he were honest, it was the one he liked the best._

_Samael felt as Sammy Winchester—the human soul-reached for that part of him, that part of them that could exorcise demons, scrambling and pushing at the corners of his mind, straining to reconcile the influx of foreign memories (not foreign, part of him chided gently, just long forgotten) which made him Sammy, not Samael, not even Sam. _

_**You didn't need the feather to fly. You had it in you the whole time, Dumbo.**_

_**Why**, Sammy'd asked Ruby when she'd said that. Why him? _

_**Because**, she'd said, **it always had to be you**._

_Now he understood why._

_Two lifetimes, disparate in length but equal in emotions felt and experiences garnered—snapped together and coalesced. _

_It was exhilarating and peaceful. Life-demolishing and affirming. And yet it was extraordinarily simple: the young man who'd always known himself as Sammy Winchester, who'd felt a bit hollow in his own bones, and Samael, the archangel who abdicated from Heaven to escape war and a long-regretted decision, became one, and in doing so, finally felt complete. _

Sam lay on his back, focusing on breathing, in a pile of rubble that had formerly been a wall.

He'd knocked it completely down.

**o - o - o - o**

24 Hours Earlier

"So this is it?"

"Yup," Sam said, climbing out of the passenger seat of the Impala. He stretched his arms over his head, yawning. "Grant's Pass, Oregon."

"Huh," Dean said. "I was expecting more _Zombieland_, less _Pleasantville_."

"Just 'cuz it looks quiet doesn't mean it is. Especially if she's got a clue we're comin'." Bobby tilted his head, gently cracking his neck.

"Yeah, well, if she does, I'm glad that we have Smitey McSmiterton on our side here," Dean quipped, gesturing to Castiel. The angel lifted a brow, but didn't comment. He hadn't seemed to enjoy the car ride there, but that, Sam conceded, could have been due to the difficulty they had in reaching the town. As soon as they had passed state lines into Oregon, it seemed that _something_ was determined to make things as difficult for them as possible.

Dean blamed Fate, (now that he knew she was able to take a corporeal form, he'd been blaming her for a lot) Sam blamed poor luck, Bobby blamed both Winchesters and Castiel blamed them all, claiming that if they'd allowed him to transport them in _his_ manner, there wouldn't have been a problem.

The squabbling was not unusual for three grown men (and an angel of the Lord) trapped in a car together.

What _was_ unusual were conveniently missing road markers, sections of highway that had been either washed away by flooding or impassible with crater-sized potholes, and directional signs that were reversed, sending them on wild chases to the opposite side of the state from where they needed to be. Finally, after driving back from Idaho three times, the quartet managed to figure out what was happening, and Sam turned his Blackberry's GPS on.

"You couldn't have done that before?" Dean had snarked at the time. The GPS did its job though, and now they were at their destination.

"Ok," Sam said, "according to what Bobby was able to piece together, this town should be crawling with demons and monsters alike." Gesturing out towards the idyllic scene spread before him, he asked, "So where the hell are they?"

"Damned if I know," Bobby groused. All three turned to look at Castiel, who shrugged.

"I've already mentioned that the Mother is invisible to me and all other angels."

Dean said, "Yeah, but what about monsters? Demons? Any tingles on those fronts, spidey?"

Frowning, Cas canted his head to one side. Sam thought he was going to ask Dean what he meant, but instead the angel closed his eyes and appeared to concentrate on something deep within himself. When he opened his eyes, he shook his head.

"I can sense nothing."

"Great," Dean muttered. "Guess that means we're going about this the old-fashioned way. Bobby, Cas, why don't you hit up the coroner's office, see what you can find there. Sam and I will start knocking on doors."

**o - o - o - o**

Hours later, in the relative privacy of an abandoned house on the outskirts of town, they'd exchanged information.

"Vampires," Bobby said.

"Vampires?" Dean asked, incredulous.

"Lots and lots of vamps," Bobby confirmed. "Some staked, some beheaded, all twice-dead. Why, what'd you find?"

"A whole lot of jack-diddly. No demon portents, not even a sniff of sulfur...no, I take that back. There was one suspicious smelling old lady, but we gave her the old _Christo_ test. Passed with flying colors."

"And definitely no sign of vampires," Sam added.

Castiel walked forward, extracting a fistful of paperwork from inside his trenchcoat. "I can assure you, there is a significant vampire presence in this town." He laid the papers on the room's tiny table. Dean reached forward and spread them out; they were coroner's reports on at least two dozen cadavers.

"Cas, did you _steal_ these?" Sam sputtered.

Blinking, Castiel said, "...Yes."

"Awesome," Dean chortled, slapping a hand on the angel's shoulder. He lurched forward, clearly not expecting the physical contact, and gave Dean a dirty look.

The reports proved Bobby's words (not that the Winchesters had needed verification to believe the older hunter): there was, or at least had been, a large vampire population in Grant's Pass.

"So now what?" Sam asked. "Do you want to go out, question more people? Get our hands on more dead man's blood?" They'd brought some with them, but not much.

"Let's catch a couple hours sleep, maybe eat somethin'. Go back out tonight, when the vamps will be active. Think it's pretty clear from canvassing earlier that the townies aren't going to be telling us anything."

**o - o - o - o**

Afternoon gave way to dusk by the time the foursome left the house. It was during their second sweep of the cheerful town square that Sam saw Lenore. She looked exactly as Sam remembered, except that her dark hair in was a bit shorter, the soft waves now brushing her shoulders. But it was unmistakably her.

"Psst, Dean!" he hissed.

"Dude, I'm right here, what-"

Sam made a slashing motion across his throat, then nodded significantly towards the vampire. Dean's eyes widened.

"Lenore," he said. "Think she'll talk to us?"

"Who the hell is Lenore?" Bobby whisper-shouted.

Castiel, who had been walking to the left of Dean, paused, looked to where Sam and Dean's attention was fixed, but did not seem to notice anything unusual about her. Then his eyes widened. "A vampire," he declared, in a loud enough voice that the young-seeming woman definitely heard him. Her head snapped up in their direction, and they all froze for several heartbeats. Then Lenore was running, and Dean was cussing.

"Nice, Cas, just fucking great!"

"Do you require her, Dean?"

"Yes, we fucking req-"

As soon as the word _yes_ left Dean's mouth, Castiel was gone. He reappeared with a disheveled, stunned Lenore, and then all five of them appeared in the musty basement of the house the males were squatting in.

To say that Lenore had been freaked out and unhappy about the situation would be stating it very politely.

The presence of an angel of the Lord and three hunters did a lot towards getting her to talk, though. She told them everything she knew about the Mother, even as she warned them that she suspected that Eve could see and hear everything that Lenore did.

"So why tell us anything at all?" Sam asked. "Ow!" he complained, when Dean elbowed him in the gut.

"Sammy, shut up when the nice vampire is telling us what we want to know, ok?"

"No, it's a fair question." Licking her lips, she said, "I'm not doing it out of the goodness of my heart. You have to do me a favor now."

"A favor?" Bobby asked, clearly not liking the sounds of such an idea.

Nodding, Lenore said, "Yes. A favor." Her eyes met Sam's as she said, "You have to kill me."

The response to such a suggestion was not, Sam was sure, what Lenore hoped for.

"Kill you? Are you fucking kidding me?" With a scoff, Dean added, "Monster pacifist. Crazy, _suicidal_ monster pacifist." He gave a dramatic little sigh. "Is this about whole Meyer thing? That had to have been really weird for your clan."

"Dean!" Sam hissed, disbelief coloring the word. His brother really was missing a sensitivity chip or something. Just because he'd had a hate on for that author ever since-

A flash of memory lanced across his skull. _Dean in a gaudily decorated room-red walls, hanging beads, black lace-holding a book and snickering at a random passage._ He winced, a headache forming behind his eyes.

It had been happening more and more frequently, whenever a sliver of memory from his soullessness returned to him. It wasn't something he'd shared with Dean; his brother was terrified enough of the possibility of the wall in Sam's mind crumbling, and he didn't want to feed into that fear with the fact that he was getting ever-increasing headaches and snatches of odd recollections (usually triggered by something simple, just as this one had been).

"What?" Dean yelped, defensive. "That shit is traumatizing! _I_ was embarrassed, and I was only a vampire for a day! That, Sam, is a very good reason to wish for death."

"Or maybe," Lenore growled-and _ohshit_ it looked as though she was ten seconds away from decking Dean, pacifist or not- "it's because I have no wish to be caught in some sort of holy war between Heaven, Hell, and Purgatory, and am uncertain how much longer I'll be able to resist that bitch's call, dragging me right into the middle of it."

"We can not accede to your request at this time," Castiel stepped forward, and held up a hand to forestall any protests.

"You don't know what she does to me, how hard it is to resist her!"

"I'm sorry," he said gravely to Lenore, "but right now you are the only creature of our acquaintance that will be able to lead us to her. We cannot kill you, not until we are within range of the Mother."

Hope lit the back of Lenore's eyes. "But after?"

"Cas," Dean said, warningly, but the angel ignored him.

"Certainly. Afterwards, we will kill you."

"Good," Lenore said, nodding jerkily. "Well then I can take you to her."

Sam exchanged a look with Dean; the corner of Dean's mouth was twisted into a grim frown.

"Well alright then," he said. "Let's go gank ourselves a Mother."

**o - o - o - o**

There was outwardly nothing to differentiate the diner from a million and one that they'd seen before. A little more than half of the sign was lit, so the buzzing red neon read "Din" instead of the full "Diner", but other than that, there was nothing remarkable about it.

Sam leaned against the passenger door of the Impala and incongruously wished for a cigarette. He'd never smoked, not that he could recall, at least, and didn't know where the urge came from. Perhaps it was a remnant from his soulless days. He turned to ask Cas if he knew if he'd taken up smoking during that time, but then recalled that he'd had to wing up to Heaven for some sort of emergency war-based thing. He'd insisted that it shouldn't take long, that there were simply a few things that he needed to delegate to new angels since Rachel's death, and if they got to their destination before he returned they were to pray for him, and he'd temporarily move his delegating duties onto yet another soldier.

The entire thing sounded tediously autocratic to Sam, but if Cas said he needed to do it, then he needed to do it. Sam just wished he would hurry.

Bobby crawled out of the Impala's backseat, Lenore directly behind him. The grayed hair that splaying out from under the hunter's trucker cap was wet, and he smelled faintly of Irish Spring. It was comforting in its familiarity. A sawed-off was in his right hand, a machete strapped to his left leg.

"This is where I leave you," Lenore said, climbing out of the Impala's backseat.

"Whoa—you're not coming in?" Dean asked from his spot, hunched over the Impala's trunk fishing for weaponry. Sam rolled his eyes and opened his mouth to give him a smart answer, but Lenore beat him to it.

"Pacifist, remember? I brought you here to her because I don't want to fight, not to throw myself into the middle of one. And if I walk in there, I'll be hers." Tilting her head towards the diner, she said, "She's inside. Don't worry about sneaking in. She already knows you're here."

"And you know that she knows this because...?" Bobby asked.

"I just know," Lenore said impatiently. "Good luck." She seemed to brace herself, chin lifted high and neck exposed.

"Uh, what are you..." Then Sam got it. _Jesus_, she was waiting for them to kill her.

"Yeah, Lenore, actually, about that whole killing you thing," Dean said, "We're not gonna do it."

Lowering her chin, Lenore sputtered, "_Excuse_ _me_? We had a deal."

"No," Dean corrected, "You and _Cas_ had a deal. And as you can see, he's not here right now. So this is how we're going to work this. Sam, Bobby and I are going to go in that diner, we're going to see if the Mother is there, and if she is, we're going to kill her. We do that, come back out and you still want to die, then fine, we'll do it. But if she's not there, or if she manages to, I don't know, poof away from us or somethin'...we're gonna need you. Alive." Shrugging, he said, "Alive-ish. So we can find her again."

"You...you..." she began, then shook her head. "No, I don't think so," Lenore said. Between one breath of air and the next she was gone, causing Dean and Bobby to swear. Sam wanted to snicker; they really were pretty jumpy for seasoned hunters.

"We should call Cas now," he said instead, and to his surprise Dean glared at him, jaw set in a stubborn line.

"No," he denied firmly. Sam was fairly certain he didn't imagine the flicker of guilt that passed over Dean's face, but it passed so quickly he might have. "That Rachel chick was a grade-A bitch, but she had a point. We shouldn't be calling Cas for every little thing."

"Our vampire-based momma monster attuned GPS cutting out on us and going after the Mother of All Evil are now considered _little_ things?" Bobby asked, bushy brows disappearing under the bill of his hat. "And besides all that, Cas _wants_ to be here for this, Dean. He told us to pray him on down before we confronted her."

"Just..." Dean lifted one hand in the air and then clenched it into a fist in the way that he did when particularly vexed. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, and when he opened them pinned first Bobby, then Sam, with a look that Sam had privately dubbed "The Commander". It was the look that Dean pulled out when he expected to be obeyed without further question. Their father had taught Dean that look, but his brother had perfected it. "We're not calling Cas. Not unless we absolutely have to. And this? Not an absolute necessity. We have the ashes. All we have to do is go in there and gank her. That's it." He slapped the lid of the Impala's trunk a little harder than necessary. Dean turned and stomped across the street, clearly expecting Bobby and Sam to follow.

"Well, ok then," Bobby said to Sam. "Wonder what happened to the Dean who was glad Cas was here to do some smiting if necessary." They exchanged worried glances but still picked up their feet to follow.

The interior of the diner was just as unremarkable as the outside. The walls were painted a probably-at-one-time-cheerful yellow; the seats were upholstered with faded burgundy vinyl that was cracked in some places and repaired with multi-colored duct tape in others.

No customers were present, but then, according to Lenore, there weren't many left in the town who hadn't be turned into either a vampire or a demon, so unless there were diner-food loving demons around, there _wouldn't_ be anyone to patronize the place.

There was, however, a server.

"Be with you boys in a minute," a cheerful voice called, and a smiling brunette bounced around behind the counter, humming as she prepared a fresh pot of coffee. Her dress uniform was the same faded yellow as the walls, and her apron was splattered with stains that could be from either berry juice or blood. The battered nametag pinned on her dress read _Angela_. "Go ahead and have a seat while you're waiting."

They all moved forward, Bobby with them, and the young woman snapped her head away from the coffee maker. Her hands were still perfectly performing the motions, but her eyes were all for the older hunter. "Mr. Singer," she warned with obviously false cheer, "_just_ the boys. You are more than welcome to sit in one of the booths by the window and wait, though. This meeting is for me and them. I'm sure you understand."

"Eve?" Sam asked. From what he could tell she looked like the young woman in the security feeds in Cleveland, but he was thrown by her behavior. She certainly wasn't acting like a pissed creature out to kill them all, as the Khan worm had warned them she was. The brunette turned to him, voice a happy sigh.

"Sam," she said, like his name was the best thing to pass her lips in ages. "Just a few more moments and I'll slice you a piece of your favorite. It's still blueberry, isn't it?" she asked, gesturing towards the pies displayed behind a low glass counter.

"Uh...I guess," he said, exchanging a bewildered glance with Dean. "What are you..." he started to say, and changed midway to, "How did you..."

"Know?" Eve asked, bustling to pick up two plates that had simply appeared on the prep counter. A stacked burger fought with thick cut fries on one, and with a mixed salad on the other. "I know everything about you," she said, the tone suggesting that an affectionate "silly" had been dropped off the end of the sentence at the last moment. Setting the plates on the counter in front of two stools, she said, "Sit, please." She turned away, heading towards the pie case. "And Dean, what kind can I get you?"

"Umm," Dean started, eyes flicking from the stools that seemed to wait for them expectantly and Eve's smiling face. "I'm not sure, they all look so good." Sam wondered what his brother was playing at but it became clear when he saw his hand dip inside his jacket and flick off the stopper to the bottle that held the phoenix ashes and take a step closer to the case, and thus, to Eve. "How about..." he hedged, taking another step, and then, "how about _this._" Standing on his tiptoes, Dean leaned over the counter and upended the ashes over top of Eve's head.

She obligingly erupted into flames, screaming.

As suddenly as they started, the flames went out. Eve stood before them, panting, her uniform singed and with streaks of soot on her cheeks. Other than some redness that looked about as lethal as contact dermatitis, she appeared completely unharmed.

"Ow!" she pouted, shaking herself. "That hurt, you little bastard!"

Dean turned to Sam, mouthing the words _Oh_, _shit._ His huge green eyes found Bobby, who dove (and Sam hadn't known that Bobby could even move that fast anymore—when Crowley fixed his legs he must have given him a mobility upgrade) behind a booth, where he began praying for Castiel, softly and fervently.

"And I was going to give you an extra large slice, too," Eve chided, shaking her finger at Dean and giving a little laugh. She frowned and looked at the plated burgers on the counter. "Look what you did! Your brother's salad is now all ashy and gross." Picking up the plate, she took it to the trash bin and dumped it.

"You don't have to pray quietly on my account," Eve called to Bobby over her shoulder. "It's long past due for Castiel and I to have a powwow anyways."

Bobby stopped mid-prayer as Sam and Dean each unconsciously took a step back.

"What, he didn't tell you?" Eve smirked as she casually dropped the now-empty plate back on the counter. "Boy, is my face red. I thought for sure he would have shared such an important information with you...what, with you all being such good _friends_ and all." She gave Dean a significant look at the word _friends_, a smirk playing along her lips. Dean's entire body tensed in a way that told Sam that Dean was holding himself in check, barely.

"Information?" Sam pressed. He stuck his hands in his jacket pockets, the right curling around the comfortingly familiar grip of his knife. They didn't know for sure it wouldn't work on her; they'd never tried it. Just because the ashes hadn't didn't mean-

"Why, yes." Eve batted her eyes (and wasn't that just disturbing) and said calmly, "He's the one who ordered my release."

"No," Dean ground out. Fists clenching, Dean stepped back up to the counter. "You're lying. Cas would never-"

"Yes, he would," Eve insisted, with a slight air of impatience. "Would it be easier for you to believe if I looked like this?" A shift of her shoulders, a puff of displaced air, and the attractive brunette was gone.

Mary Winchester stood in her place.

"Mom?" Sam croaked, and Eve winced. "I'm sorry, honey. I know this must be really awkward for you, but your brother is a bit dense. You see, Dean-"

A loud crack split the air, like a single roll of thunder, and a shapely black-haired woman appeared directly behind Dean. Snarling, she reached for him, grabbed the back of his neck and tossed him several feet, like child chucking a doll during a tantrum. A sniff of the air, and her dark eyes narrowed as she advanced on Dean's crumpled form.

"Dean!" Sam shouted, going to his brother's side. This whole venture had turned pear-shaped, _fast_. He'd been thinking that their best option would be to get out, regroup, and try to find another weapon to use on Eve. But that had been before the arrival of yet another preternatural strong woman seemingly bent on their wholesale destruction. They were, Sam thought, in a word, screwed.

"Ziz!" Eve snapped, stepping out from behind the counter. They made an odd pair, Eve as Mary Winchester in her waitress uniform, and this newcomer in low-slung jeans, belly top, and jangling beaded jewelry. The dark-haired woman stopped her advance and turned towards Eve, a frown marring her features.

"Lilith," she began, voice ringing with a faint, unidentifiable accent, "this one has used my child's ashes. The ashes of a true death of one of my own." Her body fairly quivered with restrained emotion, but at least all of her focus was on Eve, for the moment. Sam used the opportunity to heave his brother into a sitting position. Dean was okay; a trickle of blood leaked down over one brow, but he was awake, aware, and struggling back to his feet.

"_Shit_," Sam said, with feeling. "Lilith?" he choked, a sense of bizarre disconnect settling over him. It was stupid to draw attention to himself, but he couldn't seem to stop his mouth from forming the word. He looked beyond Eve-as-Mary or Lilith or whoever-the-hell she was and the strange woman she called Ziz to Bobby, who was holding his shotgun and mouthing something. He just made out the words ("_the knife, idjit_!") when Eve twirled towards him.

"Oh," she waved her hand in the air, and Bobby crumpled as if his strings had been cut. His head lolled loosely on his neck, and his trucker cap flopped off and to the ground. "I don't go by that name anymore. You'll have to excuse Ziz. She's been out of the loop for a while." Tilting her head in a practically apologetic manner towards the other woman, she said, in a conspiratorial tone, "It's Eve now. I thought it would be a cute play on words. Eve of darkness, Eve of destruction...plus, the irony of _me_ using the mother of humanity's name to bring about the end of mankind's time here on earth? More than I could resist."

Ziz shrugged the hand on her arm off. "Very interesting, I'm sure. But the ashes of one of my children have been spread here this day." Face hardening, she directed her black-eyed stare directly at Sam, and said, "And I am certain who is to blame."

"One mother here to another, Ziz, I can't say that I blame you for your anger," Eve said, trying to gain the other woman's attention. "And your baby phoenix packed quite a punch, not gonna lie. But this-"

The mother phoenix didn't wait for Eve to finish speaking. Instead, a softball sized fireball formed in her fist, and with a snarl, she threw.

It struck Sam square in the chest, slamming him through the diner's support wall. As he slid down to the floor, his vision faded to black.


	2. Chapter 2

Rating, warnings, and summary can be found at Chapter 1.

* * *

><p><em>There was fire licking his face. It curled through his hair, bubbled his skin, stole the oxygen from his lungs. Sam was in Hell again, trapped in the cage with Lucifer, Michael and their combined fury. Reflexively, he screamed.<em>

_After the span of two heartbeats he realized there was no pain, no reason to scream. A cool wave of power washed through him, a sense of flight and freedom and joy beyond anything he'd every known. Or had_ _known in this life. This human_ _life._

With a dizzying rush, Sam knew everything. Not just what happened to his soul in the Pit, not just what he'd been doing for the past year, but _everything_. Instead of terror at the enormity of the knowledge, he felt calm. At peace. He wanted to luxuriate in the moment, take time to taste the epiphany on his tongue, but knew it simply wasn't wise. Wasn't practical.

He opened his eyes to see Dean rip himself from Eve's half-hearted grasp to crouch over him, shaking his shoulders and shouting his name. She made no attempt to stop him. Sam had difficulty focusing on her; one moment, she'd look like Mary Winchester, and the next, like the young brunette woman that was her vessel. They overlapped one another and flickered in and out of his vision.

"Damn it, Sam! Tell me you're okay!" Dean's eyes were wide with fear. He lifted his face to the ceiling and bellowed, "Cas, if you don't get your ass down here-!"

So much for Dean's brief streak of independence, Sam thought wryly.

"I'm fine, Dean, I'm okay," Sam grunted, sitting up and waving his brother's hands away. "_Seriously_, I'm okay," he said, in response to Dean's continued panic. Sam knew he shouldn't be; his shirt was in tatters and his chest was blackened with soot, but he didn't hurt at all.

The lights blinked, several bulbs shattered, and in the fresh gloom, Castiel arrived. His sword was in hand as he appeared. A delicate spray of blood arched up the sleeve of his jacket; his blade was smeared with it.

"Castiel!" Eve called out, sounding pleased. "So good to see you." Whipping around to face Ziz, who made as if to move towards Sam and Dean again, she snarled, "Stay right where you are. You will not attack them again." The disparity in tones was jarring, but it caused the phoenix to halt in her advance. Castiel paused, eyes moving from the Winchesters, to the women, to Bobby, and back again, assessing the situation.

Dean was still panicking over Sam. Using the sleeve of his jacket, he carefully swabbed at Sam's chest, muttering his concern over what he would find. Underneath the soot, though, there was only clean, slightly pinked skin. Definitely not the hideous mass of fourth-degree burns that Dean expected to find. Sitting back on his heels, Dean huffed in amazement. "Man, I thought for sure she'd toasted you."

Sam rubbed at his skin, bemusement on his face. "Huh, I guess she wasn't really trying to kill me, don't know why…"

Ziz let loose a string of what were no-doubt colorful words in a language that was decidedly not English. She feinted towards the Winchesters again, but Eve and Castiel both stepped in front of her. They exchanged glances; Eve seemed amused at their show of solidarity, while Castiel appeared vaguely sickened.

"Was that Sumerian?" Sam asked.

"I don't give a damn right now," Dean sighed in exasperation. He touched Sam's arm as they stood up together, and glanced around the room. Sam followed his gaze and saw Bobby, still laying by the booth he dove behind, but beginning to stir.

"You'll deny me my vengeance?" Ziz demanded, stomping her foot. "You, _Eve_, who does all in vengeance's name herself?" The name was spit mockingly.

Wrinkling her nose and narrowing her eyes, Eve said, "If I wanted them dead, their blood would already be decorating the ground." Sam watched as Eve imperiously drew herself up to her full height. "Are you really going to fight me for the chance to kill them?"

Ziz did not look impressed. "Yes," she said, then pulled back her fist and threw a punch. It landed with a loud crack, whipping Eve's head to one side. Sam watched as Castiel took a large step back from the combatants and shuffled towards the spot where Bobby was laid out. Instead of attacking the phoenix herself, Eve took a deep breath and said, in a sing-song that could have been heard in any nursery, "Children, I need you."

Where before there had been no one there were now easily three dozen vamps; they crowded the small diner, pouring through the glass doors and jostling each other for the chance to be the first to reach the threat towards their Mother. They swarmed Ziz, pulling her to the ground. Random limbs began flying through the air as the phoenix fought back. Ichor sprayed in an arch down Castiel's front; Sam saw him duck only to be struck in the forehead by what appeared to be a severed hand. Visibly annoyed, the angel reached down and tapped Bobby's forehead, waking him. He pulled the hunter (who at first only had eyes for the admittedly amazing melee in front of him) to his feet and began making his way back towards Dean and Sam, struggling through the rolling tumble of a fight in the middle of the diner's floor.

"That should keep her busy for a little while," Eve said, turning around to face the Winchesters. "You," she pointed at Dean, "are quickly becoming more trouble than you're worth to me." She grinned. "I've heard that about you, but I chose not to listen. When others said that you were non-malleable I refused to believe them. Oh, don't get me wrong," she added hastily, when Dean lifted an eyebrow, "I still think that you have great potential. But at what cost? More grudge matches with Ziz over there?" She jerked a thumb past her shoulder. "No thanks."

The only indication of her intentions was a subtle shift of the shoulders underneath her uniform, and then Eve sprung. She attached herself like a lamprey to Dean's neck, her teeth slicing. Eve pulled him close to her, a macabre parody of a mother pulling her child to her breast. She suckled his blood, moaning pornographically, eyes rolling towards Castiel, the taunt clear.

Horrified didn't begin to cover the feeling in Sam's stomach as he watched Eve feed from his brother's neck. He watched her hold him tight, saw the sheer pleasure she seemed to glean from Dean's struggle.

Sam leapt into action, finding a strength he hadn't felt since he was soulless, tearing free a leg from a nearby stool and clubbing her with it until she released his brother. "Sam," she gasped, teetering backwards, "sweetheart, these violent tendencies of yours are going to get somebody hurt. We're going to have to-"

In the midst of her sure-to-be riveting monologue, Castiel threw himself at Eve, winging from Bobby's side in an instant. They both tumbled to the ground. She bucked the angel's grip wildly, but Castiel held on. While they struggled, Eve laughed. "You don't have the power to stop me, you pathetic, lost, impotent child." As she laughed, her skin began to melt. Thick, gooey globs of translucent gray sluiced from her body, and Eve continued to laugh as there became less and less mass for Castiel to cling to.

"Now's not the time, angel-face."

With a final, shuddering distinctly wet sounding chuckle, Eve liquified. Castiel scrabbled to scoop up the goop, but it kept sliding through his fingers. A squelch, and Eve reformed behind the angel, shaking her head in a disappointed manner. At least, Sam thought, she had reverted completely back to the form of her vessel and no longer remotely resembled Mary Winchester; that was a relief. Sam briefly felt ashamed that he didn't even remember her name.

"All that study, Castiel," Eve mocked, "and you still don't know the first thing about me. Don't you know it's important to read the instruction manual before playing with a new toy?"

From the still rolling fight behind them, Ziz gave out a low roar. It seemed as though her frustration had reached its peak, because as Sam watched, her skin began to glow. Where each creature touched her, flames burst into being; as a weapon against vampires, it was extremely effective.

Eve snapped her fingers and her creatures all stopped, like marionettes with their strings cut. A wave of her hand, and they took a step backwards. The smell of charred flesh filled the air as their skin and clothes continued to burn, but none made any attempt to put themselves out. A few of the weaker ones were already falling to their knees or crumpling to the floor, lifeless. Eve was using them to make a point, and if the look on his brother's face was any indication, Sam thought that she'd made it very well. White faced and shaking, the older Winchester pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and slapped it to the fresh wound in his neck.

"Make no mistake, Dean Winchester," Eve said, "If you continue to try to stand in my way, those you hold most dear will die bloody. I've been birthing monsters since the dawn of time, and I'm still ripe with the seed of the damned. You'll never be able to stop me _or_ my children." She stared long and hard at the angel who still knelt on the floor, then focused on Bobby. Sam wasn't surprised when she didn't include him in this silent threat, but her excluding him made it less effective. Dean certainly looked confused by it,(to be fair, that could have been from the blood loss) but Castiel...Castiel did _not_. If anything, her lack of including Sam made him look..._shifty_. And Castiel never looked shifty.

Sam resolved that he needed to have a serious conversation with the angel, sooner rather than later.

Walking around the burning bodies of her children, Eve stepped close to Ziz and grasped her upper arm. "C'mon," she said, gritting her teeth. Where her skin touched Ziz, a small plume of smoke rose. "You and I need to have some girl time, stat." Flicking her vessel's brown eyes to Sam, she dropped a wink and said, "Until later, then?"

The two mothers vanished from the room. The few vamps still animated desperately threw themselves to the ground to put out the flames, but it was far too late. In a matter of mere moments they were engulfed. The force of their thrashing managed to do what even Ziz had not; one landed against a curtained window, and flames immediately flicked upwards. It spread with alarming speed.

"We need to leave, now!" Castiel shouted over the sudden roar of the flames. A shift of displaced air, and they were back in the kitchen of the abandoned house outside of town.

"_Jesus!_ A little warning before you do that, Cas! We've _talked_ about this!" Dean moaned, his hand still firmly pressed to the wound in his neck.

"No," Castiel retorted, "_You've_ stated your opinion and automatically expected me to agree. I wasn't going to allow you possibly _perish_ just for the sake of your bowels."

Sam silently agreed; they had needed to be out of the burning building, and any other method may have caused it to be too late. The action seemingly exhausted the angel, though, because he was teetering where he stood. Sam watched as Castiel stumbled on wobbly legs towards Dean. Swaying, the angel placed a hand on Dean's shoulder, healing him.

"I don't like seeing you injured," the angel said, quietly. The low rumble in his voice would not have been out of place in the bedroom. Sam felt as though he were watching that proverbial train wreck: it was partly horrible, yes, but he also couldn't tear his gaze away. A bright flush crawled up the back of Dean's neck as Castiel slowly and carefully lifted his hand away from Dean's shoulder. Their eyes met in the uncomfortable silence for a long moment, and then Dean turned away, a frown tugging his bottom lip downward. The angel opened his mouth as if to say more, but then clearly thought better of it. Shoulders slumped in resignation, Castiel swallowed hard and turned as well, clearly forcing himself to focus his attention elsewhere.

Castiel glanced in Sam's direction, but Sam held out his arms in an "all is good" gesture. Unable to help himself, he looked back over at Dean and took in his brother's tense stance and wondered, not for the first time, what was going on between him and Castiel. Whenever they were in the same room together lately it was as if his tension level ratcheted up by several degrees. Sam couldn't decide where exactly Dean's anger was coming from.

And Castiel (_also_ his brother, a part of him said—and if that wasn't as confusing as hell, Sam didn't know what was) looked...well, he looked out-of-sorts, shaken with more than just exhaustion. Pushing aside _that_ particular ready-to-blow tinder box of emotional fuckwittery, Sam turned towards Bobby.

"That," Bobby said truculently, "was a cluster-fuck."

"At least 'Ziz,' or whoever that was, is gone," Dean piped in as he dusted himself off. "And so is that Angela-Eve-whatever bitch. You all heard Ziz call her _Lilith_, right? I didn't just hallucinate that?"

"If you did, it was a mutual hallucination," Bobby said, ambling towards the Winchesters and Castiel. "Because I heard it, too."

"I mean, _Lilith_? Sam ganked her."

Bobby lifted his trucker's cap to nervously run a hand through his thinning hair. "I don't know Dean. Hope not. 'Cuz the only way she was pulled before was from Sam here chugging demon juice, and the fallout wasn't exactly great, either."

Sam cleared his throat; he wasn't ready for the direction the discussion was going yet, about Lilith or his role in Armageddon. "Yeah, well, thank God Eve wasn't wearing mom's face anymore. I'm glad to not see that." It sounded like a weak redirection, even to him, but hopefully Bobby and Dean would allow him to change the subject. He didn't like playing on their concern over his sensitivity, but until he was certain what he was going to tell Dean about his revelation that night, he didn't want to talk about it at all.

Like a charm, it worked. Sam shoved down another wave of guilt as Dean shuddered in disgust at having seen their mom's form used like an evil puppet. Sam shuddered as well, and it wasn't affected. Although neither this time nor in Heaven had been real, it was close enough to make both Winchesters feel ill. Dean touched the side of his neck where Eve had slashed him with her teeth, where Castiel healed him.

"Speaking of things we're glad for, I'm glad I'm not infected with monster cooties."

"Actually, you were," Castiel said, and all turned to stare at him. "I fixed it," he added, somewhat defensively.

Dean growled. "_Sonovabitch_. Why didn't the damned ashes work? They were _supposed_to work!"

"I don't know," Bobby grouched as Castiel turned his attention towards him to heal a livid gash on his shoulder. "Lore said it would burn her. I guess _burn_ doesn't equal _kill_. Or maybe it's a delayed reaction." He shrugged his healed shoulder and nodded his thanks to Castiel before continuing his train of thought. "I kinda doubt it, though. _Balls_."

"Great, just great," Dean snarled, pacing. "Back to square one."

"What if the ashes are just part of a formula?" Sam interjected. "We should read the book again, maybe there's more."

"Yeah, all right. And where are we going to get more phoenix ash, genius?" Dean looked around exaggeratedly, as if he expected a bottle to appear before him. "We shot our load, Sammy. Phoenix ash is out. We need to figure something else out."

During Dean's speech, Castiel stepped away from Bobby to double-check Sam's condition. "Let me look, Sam," he murmured. "I would like to be certain you're uninjured."

The younger Winchester saw Bobby watching the angel's actions with narrowed eyes and a tightly drawn mouth. He must have overheard the Mother's jibes at Castiel during the fight, though it seemed that Dean was ignoring them entirely. Rejecting ideas that he disliked without consideration wasn't unlike Dean. If it weren't for the older hunter, Sam could almost convince himself that he'd been mistaken in what he heard; the angel sure wasn't letting on that anything strange had been said.

Sam knew that Bobby wouldn't risk the chance that what he'd been mistaken in what he heard. The angel had been acting way too weird (even for him) over the last year. Bobby was going to want to demand answers from him, and soon. Either the war was tearing Castiel down or something _really_ ugly was happening behind the scenes. With Sam's new (_or old? _he wondered—ah, semantics could come later) memories in place, he was guessing at both. Part of him ached; the old hunter's insistence on finding out what was going on was going to destroy one or the other of the males he now considered his brother, if not both.

"It seems we are safe enough to leave. There is nothing for us here; the Mother and Ziz have both fled, and the vampires that were created have all been destroyed."

"Yeah, I guess you're right. She's done here, but Eve's not _done_ done, Cas. You heard her say she'd been '_birthing monsters since the dawn of time'_ and she was '_still ripe with the seed of the damned'_? Freaking _gross_," Dean cringed.

"Yes, but it will not happen again _here_, nor anywhere in the next few days," Castiel insisted, glancing restlessly around the room. "I will take you home. Call me if you learn more." Without further time for questions, he tugged Dean and Sam forward by their sleeves in one hand, and touched Bobby on the arm. They were in Bobby's study in the next breath. Castiel was not with them.

"Damn," Dean swore, running his hands over his face. "He better have damn well remembered to bring my car!" A quick run outside and a shouted _Thank fuck!_ from Dean told Sam that Castiel had, indeed, remembered the Impala. Sam flopped down on the sofa, limbs akimbo.

"What the hell do we do now?" he asked. Sam had a fairly good idea that Bobby knew what he was referring to.

Slowly, the man said, "We can't just let it go, Sam. Something major and possibly Mother-shaped is going on with that angel of Dean's, and I'm afraid if we don't find out what it is now, it's going to come back and bite us in the ass."

Sam sighed and nodded. Bobby had not disappointed his expectations. This wasn't the time for him to divulge his own world-shattering secret, although part of him had been hoping he'd be able to at least confide _something_ to Bobby, even if he hadn't been sure what, exactly, he could tell him.

_Maybe it doesn't matter_, Sam thought. He felt fine, relaxed, and even, if he had to quantify it, happy. He smiled slightly, but not enough for Bobby to notice. Maybe he didn't need to say a thing. Dean and Bobby had other things to worry about right now besides him and the state of the wall in his head: to put it as Bobby would, Cas-shaped things.

"Yeah." Sam sighed again. "You heard her too, huh?"

Bobby snorted. "I don't why Dean isn't thinking this, too. Only thing I can figure is that he's developed a blind spot where that angel is concerned. You know what we gotta do, don't you?"

Sam nodded, resigned. "Let's give Dean a few minutes. A day, even." At Bobby's noise of protest, Sam persisted, "What more will Cas do in a day? Even if we're right and he..." Sam trailed off, unwilling to say what they were both thinking aloud. "Look, one more day at this point isn't going to change anything, is it? And maybe Dean will be more willing to listen to reason once he's rested for a few hours."

Bobby snorted in disbelief, but from the quality of the snort Sam knew he'd get his way. He grinned, and didn't bother to hide it this time.

"Well, I suppose it's worth a shot." Bobby grumbled. "Although the longer we wait..."

Standing, Sam said, "Just...one day, that's all I'm asking. And then we can do whatever you want." He met the hunter's eyes and waited for the older man to nod.

"Thanks, Bobby," Sam smiled. "If you don't mind, I'm gonna wash off a little and change my shirt," he shrugged off the charred tatters of his old one. "I'll be back down in fifteen. Dean should be done inspecting the Impala for non-existent damage by then."

"Yeah, go on," Bobby waved him off. "I'm gonna do some research. Something about that Ziz creature. That name, just a little bit familiar…"

The old hunter moved to the shelves and prepared to bury himself in dusty old books. Sam smiled and moved to the stairs to shake off his own dust.

**o - o - o - o**

Sam hummed to himself as he stepped from the shower. Pausing to stare into the mirror, he turned his head this way and that, seeing no difference in his overall appearance. Moving closer, he gazed intently at his eyes. Yes. _There_.

It was a small change, something that Dean might not even see unless he was looking very closely. A ring of gold had appeared at the very inside edge of his iris, directly around the pupil. It wasn't wide-hardly enough to be noticeable against the bluish-green he'd been born with—but it _was_ there. With how distracted Dean had been—would continue to be for the foreseeable future-maybe Sam would have enough time to ease Dean into the truth. Hopefully before Armageddon happened, _again_.

He smiled again, his heart light; he knew it was strange to feel so happy, but he felt as though the hugest burden on earth had been lifted from his shoulders. His mind was finally clear and he understood what he'd always craved to know: who he was. Samuel Winchester was not just his father's angry son, he wasn't demon-spawn destined for evil, nor Lucifer's vessel, not even a simple blood junkie. And certainly not little Sammy, who would always be known as 'Dean's little brother'...the boy who Dean felt the need to protect even if he was strong enough to take care of himself. No, he wasn't any of those. He was simply..._him_.

Sam.

It felt so very, very good.

_Hopefully_, Sam thought, _I can convince Dean this isn't the most horrible thing imaginable_.


	3. Chapter 3

Ratings, warnings and summary can be found at Chapter 1.

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><p><strong>NOTE<strong>: While a number of things written and/or posted in Chapter 3 are _**very**_ similar to what has aired (dialogue, scenarios, etc.) most was completely unintentional. We knew about only three things from previews and promo stills, but anything else is entirely by deduction (and by incredible luck).

This chapter's original posting date was prior to episode 6x19 ("The Man Who Would Be King") and can be found on the bio page of this ff. net account, at Livejournal and AO3._  
><em>

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><p><em>The small corner of the heavens that Castiel's group of rebels occupies can be compared to a thick woods in the mountains, nearly impassable to those who don't know the terrain. The angels in his army have protected its location with powerful Enochian wards for two years. Deep within its borders, Castiel's stash of weapons is secured, sealed with even more wards. Though everyone knows of the armory, still Castiel only trusts a few angels with the words to open it. Balthazar, of course, is one of those angels. <em>

_Deeper still, lays another stash of weapons that only he and Balthazar know about, and which they visit more and more frequently as the war drags on. It is this area that Castiel sits in now. _

_Surrounded by the comforting aura of power, he tries –as Dean would put it – to recharge his batteries. Lately, it seems to take more and more energy just to keep moving. His spirit is weaker than he's ever known. Even when he was all but human and had lost nearly all faith in his Father, and in Dean, he did not feel this fragile. He reaches out a shaking hand to the white glowing cache of souls, pushes his non-corporeal fingers in and sighs when the power flows into him. The light dims slightly as he drains them; he's been trying to ration how much he uses, but at the moment, he feels he needs this._

_Castiel knows that if Rachel discovered this particular habit, other angels can as well. He must be careful. Another turncoat is a risk he cannot take, especially as there is no guarantee they would confront him like she did. Remorse at her death buffets him, but he swallows it down. He doesn't regret his actions, what he had to do. Having regret is akin to stating that you would not make the same choices if faced with a similar dilemma. And he recognizes perfectly well that, given the same stakes, he would drive his blade through her heart in an instant._

_Soon, he knows, he will have to face questions from the Winchesters. They couldn't have failed to hear the Mother's remarks about him. They are –contrary to the belief of some – __**not**_ _stupid. They will figure out that something is very wrong. How he'll explain, he doesn't know. He's put them off repeatedly, and they are getting frustrated with him. The moment of revelation is inevitable. _

_His heart is heavy and clenches painfully when he realizes that Dean will likely hate him forever if – no, __**when,**_ _Castiel tells himself harshly – he discovers the entire truth._

**o - o - o - o**

Bobby scratched his beard and yawned. He'd been reading almost non-stop since yesterday, determined to find any other method of taking down Eve. So far, absolutely jack squat had presented itself. Sam was helping, reading on the other side of the study, but Dean had gone to bed, which was just as well considering Bobby didn't yet know how to broach the subject of Castiel.

He clicked open one more link on his computer. A name leapt from the screen, impossible to ignore.

"Sam, get over here."

Sam carefully set his book aside and came. Leaning over Bobby's shoulder, he asked, "What is it, what'd you find?"

"Check it out. '_The Treatise on the Left Emantion',_ it's called. Written by a pair of rabbi brothers back in the 13th century. Whole lot of contradictory stuff, but there's one thing that stood out. They claim there's two Liliths."

Sam bit his lip, waiting for the ball to drop. "Really? Well, that would explain what Eve meant back in the diner, I guess. About how she was Lilith, I mean."

"Yeah, looks like it. Seems the first one was married to a demon…"

_Not quite, _Sam thought with a tiny smile.

".. and the second was the one God made for Adam, who refused him and ran off with Lucifer." Bobby squinted at the screen. "And then Eve, the actual Eve, was made after that. Lucky Adam," he added, sardonically. " If this is true, it sure makes identifying the Mother harder. Two monsters named Lilith, pretty uncreative."

Sam laughed quietly, "Yeah, but they aren't much alike otherwise…"

Bobby looked up at him curiously. "Oh really? What makes ya think so?"

"Uh, well," Sam said, with an innocent face, "one was a human that became a demon. The other one was never a human at all. So… I guess they could have different outlooks on life? Um."

Bobby chuckled. "Okay, you can play monster psychologist, I'm just gonna go with my old-fashioned views, I guess."

Sam sighed and moved back to his own side of the room. This was getting really close to home, and he wondered how long his own secret would hold.

**o - o - o - o**

_Castiel's troops are recovering from another hard-fought skirmish in which they successfully took down a small group of Raphael's angels. They'd captured one, in hopes of convincing him to change allegiance._

_Which of course was pointless as ever. _

_As Castiel gives the order to execute the prisoner, guilt tears another tiny hole in his heart. He thinks of Sam Winchester, who'd been soulless for a year and yet never so robotic as Raphael's troops. If just one of his brothers or sisters would listen to him...but that, Castiel knows, is an unrealistic hope._

_Angels are born and trained to be obedient soldiers. To disobey an archangel's directives would have been unthinkable a few human years ago. Those who do and choose to join Castiel behave differently than they did before, but not by much. They are more autonomous, yet still desire someone to give them marching orders. Which, Castiel supposes with a grimace, is lucky for him—otherwise he'd be fighting this war alone._

_Raphael's angels, on the other hand, are more like mobile statues than even Castiel's troops. They act as though they are incapable of individual thought or action. Programmed. Not for the first time, he wonders if Raphael has worked a spell on them. He had once said 'their hearts are mine'._

_The idea that Raphael may have meant those words literally is one that, if Castiel needed sleep, he's sure would keep him awake at night._

_Castiel wishes he had the capacity to sway others so completely, the charisma that seems to come naturally to Raphael. It would make his job easier, could help him control the nearly impossible mess he's created by dealing with the Mother of All. It would give him the keys to Heaven, and the power to take and remake it into what he hopes his Father would have wanted. _

_God help him, he hopes he's doing the right thing._

**o - o - o - o**

Lying back on the old mattress in Bobby's spare bedroom, Dean stared at the ceiling in the dark. He wondered what Castiel did while he was away, how that worked.

Did angels evaporate, scatter like stars into the heavens, when they left their vessels? For that matter, where did Castiel keep his vessel? Was Jimmy still in there? He kind of thought not. How could the poor dude survive two explosions?

"I hope you're in Heaven now, Jimmy," Dean murmured. "Even if Heaven isn't such a great place to be anymore." He sighed as he added, "It'd have to be better than being blown up all the time."

There was just so much about vessels, the angelic civil war, and heaven that he didn't know about. Dean may have repeatedly complained that Castiel didn't tell him anything, but he was also aware that was partly his fault; he didn't push because he was afraid of what he'd learn.

He let himself slowly drift off, Castiel's face in his mind. Not for the first time, the image comforted him. Castiel had helped him sleep so many times. Much more, he's certain, than the angel realized. It went beyond those times Castiel had entered his dreams or chased away nightmares of hell with a tap to the forehead. Sometimes just picturing those steady blue eyes that always held Dean in place, thinking of his resolute spirit, or even recalling different instances where angel clumsily dealt with the world, gave Dean enough peace of mind to relax into sleep.

Not that he'd ever admit such a thing, to _anyone_.

Bobby's voice shouted up the stairs, waking him before he was properly asleep. Grumbling, Dean trudged down to see what the hell was so important.

When he heard what Bobby wanted to tell him, Dean wished he hadn't gotten out of bed.

__**o - o - o - o**

_Castiel used to feel fear almost constantly, and it is with only a mild sense of concern that he comes to see he no longer does. He realizes he has become numbed by the war, by what he's been doing to endure it. _

_He hates himself. __**Used**_ _to hate himself even more than he does currently._

_But now, even the hate is growing numb._

_He wonders if this is how Sam felt when he'd been pulled back from Hell. What a surprise that had been, seeing him alive and walking around. He'd say "well", too, but that wasn't exactly true; Sam had been soulless, because of Crowley's actions. Not accidentally, either. A bargaining chip._

_Not just against the Winchesters, although he's sure that had been a bonus, but against Castiel. To protect Dean, Castiel would do… almost anything. It was clear to everyone, it seemed, except for Dean himself. (The irony of that was not lost on Castiel.) Yes, he'd do anything to protect Dean. _

_So he had. The price of Dean's safety was not so high, all things considered: just hiding his morals, burying his conscience, and selling both heaven and himself. He'd pay more, if the result was Dean's well-being._

_If it was just the matter of the souls, of his ill-advised actions with the Mother, Castiel thinks that Dean might eventually forgive him. But there is one secret he's kept that Castiel is certain Dean would not forgive him for, because it involves Sam._

_While Sam's human soul had been missing, there still had been something animating the young hunter. When Castiel had reached inside, what he'd found shocked him to his core, still rattles him to think upon._

_He plans to never tell Sam (and by extension, Dean) the truth, and hopes the human soul will heal enough to keep that truth repressed once the wall Death placed inevitably falls, as it had done all his life. Castiel's not ashamed to admit that Sam frightens him. But Sam being aware of what he truly is could be overwhelming, devastating. If it destroys Sam, it will obliterate Dean, which will render Castiel's existence meaningless._

_Yes, he knows full well how dependent he is on the human. Learning human feelings has been wonderful and horrible, but it's kept him from giving up. He loves Dean, and it's glaringly obvious to more people than he's comfortable with. It makes Dean a target, an Achilles heel, just as Dean and Sam are for one another. _

_Castiel doesn't think it would work were the roles reversed. Dean has shown how little he cares about his safety sometimes, often enough that the angel wonders if he is just a tool to the Winchester. Something to be used, and then discarded. Yet Castiel will not, can not, stop loving the stupid, frustrating, beautiful soul inside Dean. That soul contains, as they all do, a spark of his Father's power, and Dean's in particular shines brighter than any other on earth. _

_Castiel seems to be the only one to think so, of course._

_He wishes, just once in a while, that the single part of him that doesn't seem to grow numb – his foolish love for this foolish human – would._

**o - o - o - o**

"'_The Winchester Psalter'_? Wow, that's an ironic and slightly freaky thing." Dean raised an eyebrow at the computer, looking at the scanned pages of an illuminated medieval book. "So what's the deal besides pretty pictures?"

"It's this page," Bobby said, turning the screen toward Dean. "Supposed to be a hellmouth. More exactly, Purgatory." The picture showed an angel – an archangel, specifically – with a key, locking the door to the pit. Monsters of all kinds were trapped within the circular mouth of hell. The entrapment itself was a living thing: it appeared to be some sort of dragon.

Dean chuckled, "Okay, so what does that have to do with us? We're not the ones trying to get into Purgatory. From what we know, Raphael isn't gunning for there either, and it's not like Gabriel is still around for us to worry about."

Sam chuckled, though he didn't feel any humor at the idea. Gabriel was a whole other can of worms he couldn't afford to open right now. But worse still, he knew what the image really represented. Because of it, he was sure he knew what was really happening.

_Oh Castiel_, he thought sadly, _what have you done?_

"What does this have to do with us?" Dean repeated when neither Sam nor Bobby said anything. He wished he could just go back bed and dream about other angels and _why the hell was he thinking that? _He shook his head.

"Well, it might be nothing but…" Bobby hesitated. He met Sam's eyes but found no help there. "…You heard the Mother, Dean. She said Castiel released her from Purgatory. And if this Psalter is right, an angel is the only being who could do it."

Dean froze, eyes narrowing in a sudden rush of anger. "That bitch was full of shit, and you both know it." He looked from Bobby to Sam, and found no support there; just a silent sympathy. It only made him angrier. "Whatever she said, it was just to mess with our heads." Even to himself, his words sounded plaintive, the denial of a child.

"Okay, maybe you're right," Bobby said, in a way that Dean knew meant he was humoring him. "But we can't ignore every word she said. There was truth there too, and like it or not, monsters don't tell lies all the time. They like to gloat, especially when it's the truth they can hang over our heads."

Bobby's reasonableness really got on Dean's nerves. He waved his hands aimlessly, trying for any other rationale. "But a picture's just… a picture. And besides, it's an angel locking the thing up, not..."

"Or unlocking," Sam's voice came quietly.

Dean spun toward his brother, wanting to shout _traitor!_ at him. "No. _Don't _say that. This is Cas... Cas wouldn't do anything like that. It's not the way he's built, man."

Bobby cleared his throat. "We don't want to think it, Dean, but we know something's off. You know, too, boy, in your gut. We're gonna ask him what's what."

He noticed then what Bobby and Sam had done, understood that they had already planned an interrogation, without Dean's input. They were simply letting him know, as if they were doing him a fucking favor.

"No, wait, not this way," Dean huffed, his voice desperate now. "Let me just talk to him—"

"How many times have you tried, Dean? He'll just say he'll tell you when he can," Sam responded gently. "Things have gotten really bad, and if Cas won't make the time to tell us, then… well, we'll just have to make him _take _the time."

Dean felt sick, but he closed his eyes and nodded. Taking a deep breath, he made the lamest call possible.

"Cas, hey, uh, can you come down a minute? We've found something… important. Some old book with something in it... and, uh, we could really..."

**o - o - o - o**

_Castiel hears the prayer, knows it's half-hearted, but he craves Dean's presence and can never refuse. _

_**Dean, I'm coming. Of course. Always.**_

**o - o - o - o**

As soon as Castiel appeared in Bobby's living room, he smelled a very familiar fragrance and froze. Eyes widening in sudden understanding—the reluctance of Dean's prayer, the way the three hunters stood around him in a semi-circle—Castiel made to immediately leave, but it was already to late. Dean dropped his lighter and the ring of holy oil snaked around Castiel's feet, trapping him.

_Oh Father, no, it's too soon, too soon…_

It would always be too soon.

"Dean," he said, voice carefully steady, "what is the meaning of this?"

Dean and he locked gazes, as usual, but Dean didn't say a word. Perhaps he couldn't; his throat worked but nothing came out.

Sam's forehead crinkled in what looked like concern. It would be he and Bobby, then, that would be leading this questioning. In some ways, Castiel was thankful. It would be harder if Dean were the one interrogating him, to hear the accusations trip off his tongue.

"Cas," Sam began, "We have some questions. About the Mother."

"I've told you about her…" he hedged, not knowing why he bothered with evasion at this point. It was over, and he knew it.

"But there's more, isn't there?" Bobby pressed.

Castiel's eyes swung away, not focusing on anyone's face. "I don't know what you're asking."

_Lies_, Dean thought, loudly and clearly. Castiel winced. He had never _not_ looked Dean straight in the eye. The older Winchester had once told him that Castiel was the most painfully honest person he had ever known. Although his thoughts and emotions were more jumbled after that initial outburst, Castiel could still feel them rolling just beneath the surface of Dean's skin, could well imagine what was racing through his mind, things like: _How long had this been going on while I wasn't paying attention?_or perhaps-

"Months," Dean said, and Castiel jerked at how accurate he'd been. "You've been...for months, and I..." Castiel's throat constricted in fear.

"Look, Cas," Bobby said carefully, "we heard Eve say you'd called her up, released her from Purgatory. We don't _want _to believe it, because she's obviously a twisted bitch. But… well, we just have to ask. We just wanna hear it from you."

"But I haven't anything to tell you –" Castiel began uneasily.

"Bull," Dean barked. Castiel's gaze rose to see the hunter's white-faced worry. "We know the Mother was raised by those dragon freaks. They had a fucking _instruction_ _book_. Thinking back on it now, that book—old dead language, bound in human skin—seems like the sort of thing that heaven would keep its eye on. Pretty powerful weapon, in the wrong hands. The page with all the gory details was missing, but let me take a guess. Her release required virgin sacrifice, am I right?"

Castiel's eyes flicked briefly to the side, but he forced himself to return them to look at Dean directly.

"Yes. A virgin vessel is the only type pure enough to contain the Mother."

"So a demon who's afraid of STD's?" Dean grunted with disgust. "You're admitting to this shit, Cas? I don't-"

"She's not a demon," Castiel responded, cutting Dean off. "She's something much older. Bigger."

"What's that?" Bobby prompted.

But Castiel looked away again. "I couldn't say exactly what –"

"_Bull_!" Dean said again, growling. "I don't care what she is, I just care that you're lying about shit and that you told dragons to _sacrifice virgins to a monster_. Virgins, Cas! _Innocent girls_!" Dean's face was red and strained.

Then Castiel laughed, genuinely laughed aloud, startling all three men and himself. "What would you have suggested as a replacement, Dean? Myself? The '4000 year old virgin', I believe you once called me?" He could feel his face split into a broad but sickly grin, knew his vessel's eyes were a little glazed. "I'm afraid that wasted trip to the brothel wouldn't have made me any more suitable. I wasn't what she needed."

Dean stepped back a pace from the circle, eyes wide and horrified at Castiel's behavior. The angel never laughed, never smiled like that. All Dean could pull from him, if he were lucky, was the slightest of huffs, the barest twitch of his lips. Nothing like what we was seeing now. This was… it was just wrong. An icy stab went down the hunter's spine and his heart seemed to twist inside his chest. All Dean saw looking at that smile was the wrecked shell Cas had been in his visit to 2014.

_Oh God… Was his Cas already gone?_

Dean must have made some sort of broken noise, because Castiel continued to chuckle softly, almost breathlessly. "Well, then. I see being coy is pointless. If I have nothing left to lose _here_, then losing the war won't be so bad, will it?"

Bobby and Sam glanced apprehensively at one another, clearly wondering where this was going. Dean could only stare, his lips trembling and forehead pinched, waiting for the end of the world.

Castiel paused a moment; the crackling of the fire seemed very loud. Dean's gaze on the angel's face was almost tangible. It was intense, pleading with him to tell the truth while simultaneously begging for the truth to be a complete lie. Whatever he did now, Castiel knew any possibility he may ever have had with Dean was dead. He shook with the need to spill everything, to bleed his secrets onto the floor at Dean's feet.

Breathing deeply, he said slowly, "I didn't directly order the dragons or tell them what to do, but I didn't try to stop them, either." Castiel spoke haltingly, as if choosing the right words would lessen their impact. "The instruction book is not a heavenly weapon. It came from… Crowley. He gave it to me, to pass to them…"

**o - o - o - o**

_The angel frowned at the demon, distrust and borderline hatred etched on his face. 'Why are we talking to this abomination, Balthazar?'_

"_Now, brother, he's not nearly so dreadful as you make him out to be," the other angel said consolingly, pouring himself a drink. "For one, he's got excellent taste in liquor." He knocked back his drink and then reached for the metal mixer, intent on making another. "Martini, Cas? No?" Sighing at Cas' stone face, he muttered, "Somehow I am not surprised."_

"_A Scotch for me," came the demon's smooth request. "You being over there already and all." Crowley stretched out on the angel's luxurious sofa and glanced around. "Nice digs, Balthazar. Didn't think angels liked anything that wasn't stark as a Quaker's shack. Very posh," he said, approvingly._

"_Not all angels have sticks up their bums, Crowley." Balthazar quirked a half-smile, handing the snifter to the demon. "Some of us appreciate the finer things, the things that make life on earth worth living." He looked significantly at Castiel, where his brother still stood stiffly across the room. "Some of us understand that keeping earth intact is important."_

_Castiel growled, "You know that is all I want, Balthazar, but this method-"_

"_I know, Cas, I do know." Balthazar approached him with concern etched on his face. "But you're losing, and you know that. I don't want Raphael to win, because I know exactly what he will do to the world. Still, I don't want to fight, and I wish you wouldn't either...but since you're the determined, persistent thing that you've always been… this could be just what you need to tip it all in your favor." He turned back to the bar, speared an olive with a toothpick and plopped it into his glass. "It's not the most savory situation, I agree. The dry cleaning bills alone one accumulates while working with demons..." Balthazar trailed off at the sour, warning look on Crowley's face. "But! Well...enemy of my enemy, etcetera. You do understand that, Cas."_

_Crowley smiled smarmily (which admittedly Castiel believed was the only type of smile he was capable __of). "Look, you remember me, don't you? That I was somewhat instrumental in helping stop your little apocalypse a year ago?"_

_Castiel's lips pinched. "Of course I do. I __**was**_ _there." _

"_Then you know I have a vested interest in preventing a second one. Raphael's plans would deprive me of my place in the world. My motives are entirely self-serving, if that eases your conscience, duckie. You two are just accessories. I could probably do without you, but things will be so much easier with your cooperation."_

_Crowley's reasoning didn't ease Castiel's mind at all, but he nodded anyway. He wouldn't have even agreed to this meeting if he hadn't been desperate. "Tell me what you have in mind. I'll decide if it's worth my time."_

"_Fair enough," Crowley nodded, sipping his Scotch. "Right to business. I am the current King of Hell." At Castiel's suddenly tense posture, Crowley scoffed. "Keep your sword tucked away, dear. Power vacuums are irresistible. Someone has to wear the crown, and who better than yours truly?" He set his empty glass on the low table in front of him and waved his hand flippantly. "The demon you know, and all that. I don't want another apocalypse, and I don't want to rule the earth or conquer heaven. Fact is, I don't want anything else but what's downstairs. Believe me when I say there's more than enough fun to be had with that many insane murderous beasts to last me a dozen lifetimes. But it's not nearly so simple as stepping onto the dais and putting on a crown. Which Hell doesn't really have, by the way." _

_At Castiel's blank look Crowley sighed and elaborated. "A crown? But it would be a lovely accessory."_

_Balthazar sighed with lessening patience, "Do get on with the details, old fellow. I'm sure my brother would like the Cliff Notes. After all, there __**is**_ _a war raging at this very moment."_

_Crowley snorted. "Getting to the point. Demons are, the lot of them, bloody rotten bastards who don't recognize any authority that hasn't been in charge since the dawn of time. In other words: Lucifer, one of the original Fallen, or a chief torturer. King of the Crossroads doesn't translate, to most, as an effective King of Hell, you see. They aren't so much __**rebelling**_ _against me as just being themselves, the arrogant, chaotic, uncontrollable little piss-ants." He insulted his subjects with almost indulgent amusement. "I need a tad more firepower to clamp down on their stupidity, to flex my muscle… so to speak..." Crowley smirked, giving far more meaning to his words than he truly needed._

_Castiel's skin crawled. "Please get to your point a little faster," he ground out. "I find myself with an increasing desire to smite you."_

"_Moving on," Crowley scowled, "I need souls that aren't demonic. And I can't gather human souls fast enough to serve my needs, they have to willingly sign themselves over first. Obviously I can't access the souls in Heaven. So what's left is monsters. There are not as many as I'd like on earth, and finding, then pulling them, is too bloody slow. Which is why I need to access the place they go when they die, to get the whole lot of them in one big all-you-can-eat monster soul buffet."_

_Castiel's brow drew in confusion. "Monster souls don't go to Hell when they die."_

"_No, indeed they don't. I mean Purgatory." Crowley waited a beat for that to sink in, then continued. "I've been trying to beat a location out of the buggers, but so far none of them are feeling very chatty. I've got a few tricks to use yet, might be getting there. Meanwhile, the leftovers are still bloody tasty. And," he gave a twisted grin, "we could share the spoils, you and me." _

"_Why in Heaven's name would I want these souls?" Castiel's tone was incredulous. "You're making no sense."_

"_Power, you simpleton," Crowley snapped. "Souls are power, thought you knew that. Each one, no __matter where they came from, has a little spark of your God inside them, and that makes them powerful and valuable –"_

"_The only thing worth owning in this economy," Balthazar reiterated from his spot by the bar. He sighed, looking contrite. "I wasn't just collecting them for fun, brother. They kept me from being discovered. That is, until you found me. Don't worry," he said, at Castiel's look, "I didn't harm any of them, and they aren't bound for hell when they die. All I needed was a little taste and then I could shield myself."_

"_Though they are far more versatile than that," Crowley put in. "They've got a thousand and one uses. I'm looking for the power to command the idiots down in Hell. __**You**_ _could use it to win your war." The demon waited for a moment, and added, "I know Raphael has you badly outgunned right now, and it's not likely to get any better using your old-fashioned techniques of honorable combat. Big brother isn't going to play by the Code Duello... he's looking to win. By any means necessary. You know it."_

_Castiel was still and intense. His silence made it clear that Crowley was right. "Balthazar," Castiel appealed to his brother, "if you would just give me the weapons you stole-"_

"_I can't, Cas. I honestly __**can't**_ _right now." Balthazar winced. "I have a few on hand, minor things. The rest I hid away. Rather too well, unfortunately. I intended to make a treasure map of sorts, but I was running a little too fast and didn't have a chance, so… I've lost track of them." When Castiel snorted in disbelief, Balthazar said, "I am truly sorry. I do, however, intend to search for them, and will turn them over to you when I find them. But until then, it can only be to your advantage to try another route. Power is power. Once you have the weapons as well, there will be no way for Raphael to succeed."_

_Castiel turned this over in his mind, still not liking it. He opened his mouth just a slit, saying, "I won't sully my honor to win."_

"_Then you might as well walk out with a white flag because you're only gonna die bloody," Crowley muttered. "Over and over and over again. So will everyone else who ever opposed Raphael's reign. Including your Winchesters. I'm sure Raph has a special corner of Hell already picked out for those boys."_

_Crowley's words sank into Castiel's heart as Balthazar picked up the thread. "Brother, I know how fond you are of them, and while I think they a weakness, I know you won't abandon them. So we aren't asking you to."_

"_I am," Crowley interjected sourly, downing the rest of his Scotch._

"_But you cannot protect them fighting the way you have been. How many of our brothers and sisters have you slain already in their name? How many troops has Raphael lost already in the name of your protective instincts? You know he will not be merciful towards them." Seeing Castiel begin to waver, Balthazar continued, "How many angels have left your side and returned to Raphael, the side certain to win? How many of them know just how far you'd go for your pet humans, and are even now whispering that into our dear brother's ears?" _

_When Castiel remained silent, Balthazar nodded sadly. "So you see there's nothing else to be done. And there's really nothing wrong with using a weapon to your advantage, Cas. It might be get your mitts a bit dirty, but... think of it this way: you won't even be harming any humans in the process! They're only monsters. The same things you and your humans have killed on a regular basis already. How can this be any different? You rid the world of a few monsters, and you—how would they put it?-charge your batteries while doing it."_

_Castiel was going to agree, and they all knew it. It felt so wrong, but everything Balthazar and the demon said made so much sense. There was no way he could risk... and it was sure to help the cause. __In the long run… how could it be truly bad?_

"_How… how could this be done?" he found himself asking._

**o - o - o - o**

Castiel paused in his tale and looked up at Bobby, Sam and Dean. They didn't show an outward reaction, and were standing in silence around the circle of fire. He sighed and looked upward.

"You were…" Dean began, his voice so hoarse it sounded as if he'd been screaming, or holding back tears. "You were working with Crowley…"

"Yes. For the greater good, but yes."

"The greater good?" Dean spit, "We don't work with demons, we don't work with monsters. Not for any reason! The greater good be damned!"

"Damnation is preferable?" Castiel shot back angrily. "Or is it preferable to be at the mercy of an archangel who _has no actual mercy_? What I've done is reprehensible on many levels, Dean, I know. You don't need to spell it out for me. But everything I've done _is _for the greater good."

Silence fell again, with Dean breathing harshly through his nose, lips pinched together in a white line. His eyes twitched as he tried to control himself.

"Do you think that's all? Let me continue to demonstrate the depths to which I've been reduced," Castiel muttered, his eyes once more unfocused.

**o - o - o - o**

"_I've already sullied myself enough," Castiel snarled as he stood in Crowley's new palatial home, listening to the demon unveil his latest plan._

"_You're already in the dirt neck deep, Cas. What makes you think anything extra will make the slightest difference to the quality of your soul now? Dirt on top of dirt… smut on smut... it's still dirty. Your God don't measure layers: sin is sin, and you, darling, are a sinner. Now will you do it, or not?"_

"_What, kill you?" Castiel laughed softly. "I would be more than happy to." _

"_Very funny," the demon smirked. "My bones are carved with the spells necessary to send me to Purgatory and not to destroy me. It's not a task I'm looking forward to, by the way, but I don't trust anyone else to do it. So there's little choice...unless you wanna take my place?" Castiel twitched._

"_No?" Crowley mocked. "Right. Didn't think so. So you torch me in front of the Winchesters and we'll eliminate two problems at once. They'll stop pestering me and can go back to feeling morally superior and smug in the knowledge that they're not working for evil old me, capturing Alphas. Maybe that'll ease their terminal angst a notch, eh?" Winking, Crowley admitted, "Yeah, probably not. Worth a try, though. And when I'm on my little vacation to the second happiest place under earth, you tell the dragons to start chucking virgins down the hole. When I find the Mother I'll tell her where to go to, and she'll do the rest."_

"_How do you know she'll even be willing to help us?" Castiel asked. "She's not been to the surface in thousands of years. Even with her oldest enemy returned to action, she might not care-"_

"_You're acting like she thinks like us, mate. It's part of her nature. She's old, primordial old, and trust me when I say that the older a creature is, the less advanced their intelligence and the more likely they are to just follow instinct. It's programmed." Crowley glanced sideways at Castiel. "Some might even __accuse angels of the same problem." Before Castiel could open his mouth to protest, Crowley waved a hand. "Yes, yes, you are advanced, thanks to the glowingly positive influence of your sweet humans. Wonderful example you chose to follow, I must say." Licking his lips, he added, "Dean Winchester is certainly a fine figure of a man...and if one __**has**_ _to follow a human, well..."_

_The lusty tone of voice wasn't lost on Castiel, who was angry to feel his face growing warm._

"_You can stop teasing, Crowley," came a low but feminine voice in the corner of the room. "He's whipped and he already knows it. Just finish talking so we can move on with the entertaining bits."Meg's hungry gaze raked Castiel head to foot, and his temperature went from warm to cold._

"_Oh yes, let's focus on you, shall we?" Rolling his eyes, Crowley said, "In my brief absence, Meg shall assert her influence over our fellow demons – which has always amazed me, she's so very convincing, must be the cleavage – and watch over Hell until I return. She knows better than to cross me, don't you sweetheart? Few little fail-safes in place, few little hellhounds who don't answer to anyone but me, and so on." Crowley grinned at her resigned scoff. "When we've got the Mother out, Meg will do her little black magic and retrieve me—__**promptly**__," he stressed, with a warning glare, "and it's back to business as usual. You've got the weapon you need to defeat Raphael, Cas, and Meg and I get what we want too."_

_Meg hummed, "Queen of the Crossroads isn't the worst deal I've had. Queen of Hell would be so much yummier…"_

'_And you know well that you're simply not my taste in consorts, darling,' Crowley drawled. 'Nevertheless, the other deal is more than acceptable. However, it all hinges on whether Cas here is willing to deal in turn.'_

"_Why do I need to strike a deal for this?" Castiel rumbled, his heart racing._

"_Because, Clarence, I'll be a crossroads demon, and we have rules, despite what Heaven may think. Everything I'm involved in will require a kiss." She licked her lips eagerly. "Even if it's secondhand deals, we'd all have to play a part in it, so it's kisses all around. We could do some practice runs, if you'd like. I hear you're a little unschooled." _

_Castiel's eyes blazed. "I would not like that. You may wait until the moment of the deal, and not one second sooner."_

_Crowley smiled gleefully. "Ah, that must mean we're in agreement. You and I can skip the kiss, since I know you would only bite my bloody face off. Pity. Meg will be our intermediary."_

"_I'll need two kisses, in that case," Meg chortled. "Think you can come through, Clarence? And start using a little Chapstick. Those lips are pretty but look kinda dry," she pouted, as if she hadn't been literally almost salivating at the prospect of their bargain moments before._

_Heart thumping in anxious fury, Castiel nodded. "Give me the plans and we'll get this over with."_

**o - o - o - o**

"My God," Bobby breathed. "Are you saying that Crowley's not dead? And Meg was in on it?"

Castiel nodded, eyes closed. "Yes, to both. It was painful for me, if you must know."

"Right," Dean rasped, his chest heaving a bit. "Kissing that slut looked like it was a huge chore."

"It was far from pleasant, Dean." Castiel's eyes snapped open and bored into the hunter's. Sarcasm dripping from every word, he growled, "Why do you think I was watching _the pizza man_? I had to prepare myself any way I could. And no other _option _was presented to me."

There was a significant, gravity-filled pause, and the glares between them could have set fire to the entire room.

"Okay, um…" Sam cleared his throat loudly and rubbed his face, uncomfortable in the presence the blatantly revealed UST between his brother(s). He tried to wrap things up quickly, "So, ah.. you and Crowley, monster souls, sending him to Purgatory, Meg was in on it... uh, is that all?"

"Is that _all_?" Dean demanded, his voice shrill as he finally wrested his gaze from the angel and stared at Sam. "Isn't that _already_ the most insane shit you could possibly imagine?" He whipped back to Castiel, cold rage warring evenly with devastation. "Cas, you… you're so much better than this. I would never have believed you capable of anything like this. Please… God _please_, just tell me you're lying... that you've been watching too many crappy made-for-tv movies and you're writing a bad script to send to Hollywood. If you are, I wanna be sure I don't buy a ticket."

Castiel laughed again, caustically. He didn't even answer, just hung his head until the laughter began to sound more like gentle sobs.

"I've told you before how badly the war is going. _Badly _is an understatement. It will still be a miracle if we win, despite everything, no matter the measures I've taken. When I lose, you will need another miracle just to survive. I don't think you understand. Raphael plans to raze the planet. There will be no more earth, no more humanity. Billions of lives, gone." He turned away briefly, ashamed of the tears in his eyes.

"Everything I've done... I prayed, every moment I could stop moving, prayed to Father for a sign that I was doing the right thing. I prayed for _any other option_ than what I was doing, I prayed to be _stopped_ before I became something irredeemable. And I got no answer. _I never get an answer_…" He stopped for a deep, shaky breath.

"Yes, lives were sacrificed. But more angels have died than humans or monsters combined, you should know. I have a limited number of brothers and sisters. When we are gone, there is no replacing our kind. Our Father isn't around to make more of us. When I'm gone, Raphael will slaughter those who remain loyal to me. His army will be all that remains alive."

Castiel looked into each of the human's eyes, one by one. "I hope you understand the magnitude of what I've done now. The regrettable things I've told you I _had_ to do, for the sake of winning. For the sake of freedom, not peace." He clenched his eyes shut again. "I may lose. I probably _will _lose… but I can't just give up. Not now, I mustn't stop. I have to save you all."

Castiel's voice cracked at last, and he choked out a sob, fighting the urge to fall to his knees and failing. "I must… I must save _you_, Dean."

Dean's breath came harsh and fast. Tears were pricking his eyes at last; he had to leave the room. He'd held in his emotions for too long, and they were threatening to overwhelm him. He whirled and stormed out, the screen door to the porch slamming behind him.

Bobby waited for a heartbeat, staring blindly at the angel trapped in the circle of fire, then went after Dean.

For a few moments, Castiel did nothing but gasp out broken sobs, tears – the first he'd shed – streaking his face. _He couldn't win, he couldn't possibly win, and Dean hated him…_

He didn't realize the flames were gone until Sam touched his shoulder. The angel jolted, and raised his wrecked face to the young man. "Cas, it's okay." Sam spoke gently, as one does to the injured. "I understand what it's like. Dean does too. He'll remember that as soon as he stops being an ass, you'll see. We know what it means to have to fight to win at any cost. We've both done bad things that we regret. You wouldn't believe how badly we...well, yeah you probably would."

Sam sighed and ran his hand through his long hair. He tugged at Castiel's sleeve to get the angel to stand, then led him to the kitchen table and poured a glass of water. Sam forced him to drink it, only speaking again when Castiel had gagged down several swallows full.

"Listen, we can help. We'll find a way to help and we won't give up. We never do, you know." Sam smiled wryly, though Castiel didn't respond. He just continued to drink the water, although now he was sipping it.

Sam sighed and broached the subject he'd been dreading since Castiel first admitted what he'd been doing with the souls. "You're addicted, aren't you?"

Castiel's forehead pinched, and he looked up with a genuinely puzzled expression. "What are you talking about?"

"To souls. You've been feeding on them for most of a year. It's giving you a boost you can't get any other way. You haven't been able to stop, and you've tried, haven't you?"

"I require them. I can't maintain the power I need to fight otherwise…"

"If you say so. But take it from someone who's an addict themselves. I've used the same excuses, for the same reasons. It never has a good ending." Sam breathed softly, leaning toward Castiel, lowering his voice even more. "I know it's not going to be easy to defeat Raphael without that power source, but… there may be a way to control the Mother…"

"I never said I was going to use the souls to control her," Castiel said.

"You didn't have to."

Castiel rubbed his hand across his eyes and groaned. "I don't know of any other way. I've exhausted my knowledge and resources."

"But I do know a way," Sam whispered, touching Castiel's hand to get his attention.

The angel blinked, clearing his vision, and met Sam's firm gaze. He saw the slight golden ring in Sam's eyes, and sucked in his breath in shock. It couldn't possibly be there unless…

"The Mother is the Leviathan," Sam said. It wasn't a question. "She'll come when I call."

Castiel shook as he asked, very quietly, "What do you remember?"

Sam's answering smile was relaxed, even gentle. "Everything."


	4. Chapter 4

Ratings, warnings and summary can be found at Chapter 1.

* * *

><p><em>Cars are nice, <em>Dean thought._ Dependable_.

That wasn't strictly true. Cars had a tendency to break down or refuse to start at inconvenient times, like when one is being chased by a vampire and needs to make a get-away to regroup. But the car couldn't help that; those things happened due to Dean's own neglect, not through any fault of the car itself. If he took care of her, she took care of him. It was a simple relationship.

_And at least the Impala never betrayed anyone_, Dean thought a little muzzily, huddled into the driver's seat. The only time she'd ever let him down was because she'd run out of fuel or gotten a flat tire, things she couldn't control. Like the time she got smashed nearly to hell by a demon-driven semi-truck. Even after that, after being all but destroyed, he'd been able to rebuild her. So many parts replaced through the years, she was lucky to have even one or two that were straight from the original form, but she was… still herself. Always just herself. And she'd never change. Dean couldn't say the same about anything else in his life. Any_one_ else. No one else would do that for him, not change, just because he asked them to.

And he'd asked. God knows he'd asked.

Dean was one step from drunk already. He'd wasted no time in starting. Before his feet hit the dirt outside Bobby's door he'd reached into his jacket for a flask. Drained that as he strode across the track toward his car. Inside the trunk were several "emergency" bottles, and he was damned near through a fifth of Jack. He'd only been outside for fifteen minutes, best guess. The liquor was burning away his insides, but he didn't figure that mattered. There was already a huge hole in his chest from where his heart had been ripped out. If more organs got burned away? Just left plenty of room for more whiskey.

He gulped another mouthful, held it until his tongue nearly went numb, then swallowed slowly, letting it sizzle down his entire throat. In another hour, his voice would be shot from the strain, would be growly and raw and deep like –

God _damn_ it.

Dean very nearly threw the bottle against his baby's dashboard. But she hadn't done anything wrong, so he just held it, shaking. He tilted forward until his forehead rested against the steering wheel and gave a bone-deep sigh.

Dean Winchester always coped, always bounced back from betrayal and loss. He was trained to squash it down and force it to heal over so he could move forward. But right now… he didn't _want_ to. He was so tired of it. Each betrayal was like a lump of scar tissue inside, and every new gash across that surface just made it harder and uglier. One day he might not be able to heal it at all.

It was pretty damned close to that one day.

What the fuck now? Where did it go so unbelievably fucking wrong?

How cool would it be to erase everything that had happened tonight. To just go back and figure out where it had gotten so fucked, and _fix_ it.

_Wrecking the natural order is not so much fun when you're the one that has to mop up the mess, is it_?

"Fuck you," Dean said to the memory of Death's mocking words. His hands twitched around the bottle, but there was no more comfort (or oblivion—Dean wasn't certain which he had actually sought) to be found there.

Castiel had lied to him. _Had_ been lying to him, for a long time. Dean stewed over that thought, prodded at it, but it still didn't feel real. The realization that he'd come to rely on Cas to always tell him the truth, no matter how unpalatable, threatened to overwhelm him now that he knew that trust was misplaced. The entire situation had taken on an air of unreality to Dean. He rolled the words around on his tongue: "_Cas is a liar_". They didn't feel more factual for having spoken them aloud.

There had been many hints, but the first, the one that should have been most obvious to Dean, was the way that Castiel had been unable to meet his eyes for weeks now. In retrospect, it was perfectly clear: the way he'd tilt his head to the side, the way his lips would compress and he'd pull in upon himself when speaking to Dean. The hunter, when he had thought about it, dismissed Castiel's actions as ones born of fatigue.

"Death could have told me straight out what was going on," Dean snarled. It was misplaced anger, Dean was self-aware enough to know. He may have been cursing out Death, but it was himself that he was most angry with.

_You'll understand when you need to._

Yeah, well, Death had been wrong about that, hadn't he? He'd needed to know what the hell was happening long before now. While he'd been playing house with Lisa and Ben, Castiel had been-

A knock on the window jerked him to attention. He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, hard, to prevent threatening tears from escaping. Dean scooted upward and swiped the condensation that'd formed on the glass to see Bobby frowning at him.

"Open the door, Dean." The words sounded like they were coming from a long way off; Dean wondered if it was due to the glass that separated them, or if he was experiencing a mild form of shock. It was this thought that pushed him into action. Dean Winchester did not emote like a teenage girl.

Mustering a put-upon sigh, Dean fished for the door handle. He must have either drunk more than he'd thought (unlikely, being that he still held the bottle, and that was pretty clear proof on just how much he'd imbibed) or he was exhausted, because he missed it, twice. Apparently impatient with his fumbling, Bobby jerked the door open himself.

"I can't believe these words are coming out of my mouth," Bobby said, "but do you want to talk about it?"

Dean snorted. "Do I look like I want to talk about it, Bobby?"

When the older man just continued to stand there and stare at him, as if to say, _Why, yes, you do_, Dean reluctantly held out a hand.

"Help me up?"

"What, you break your legs stumbling out here?" Bobby snarked, but he still grasped Dean's hand and pulled him to his feet. Jerking his trucker-hat clad head towards the main garage, Bobby said, "C'mon. I have beer in the mini-fridge."

They tromped over to the open-air garage. Dean threw himself into a nearby lawn chair and waited for Bobby to get him a beer. Obligingly, the other man did, which Dean thought was good. More alcohol would help. But then Bobby pulled up a chair right beside his and stared at him expectantly, which was bad.

They sat quietly, sipping their beers and not talking.

It went on for a long time-long enough that Dean began to hope that further conversation might be avoided after all, but then Bobby had to screw that by breaking the silence.

"So are you gonna start, boy? Or are we just gonna sit here staring at each other 'til we're bored out of our trees?"

Dean wiped a sweaty palm off on his jeans. "What do you want me to say, Bobby?"

"You think I know the first thing about this feelings crap? Balls!" Clearly agitated, Bobby wiped the back of his hand under his nose and sniffed, "Just...what has you twisted up about this? I know I'm pissed as hell, but you're acting like...I don't know. That's why I'm askin'."

Night was falling. The crickets had begun their evening chorus; the temperature finally dropped from unbearably hot and a light breeze blew. All things that should have been enjoyable sensations, and Dean found he wasn't enjoying them. Not at all. He tilted his bottle and drained it. Another pulse of time, and then he started speaking.

"Cas isn't supposed to be this way, Bobby. He's not supposed go around makin' deals with demons and lying and... changing."

"So you're angry... because you got what you asked for?"

Dean set the beer he'd been nursing on the nearby table carefully, but it still tipped over, falling to its side. It was empty, so it didn't matter. He stared at Bobby, incredulity splashed across his face.

"Dean, I'm going to just lay this out there," Bobby shifted in the plastic lawn chair. "I don't agree with what Cas has been doing. Far from it. But you've been bitching at him for months, tellin' him he's gotta man up. And now you're complaining because he's doing it?"

"I never meant for him to do anything like this!"

"So it's okay for someone to change, just so long as you get to approve of _how_?" Bobby shook his head. "Things don't work like that, son."

Anger flooded Dean's veins. "Why are you defending him?"

"I'm not!" Bobby shot back. "Already said that I didn't agree with what the damn fool is tryin' to do! If you were really listenin' to me you'd know that." He leaned forward, eyes narrowed a bit as he asked, "What about this really has you so twisted up, kid? If it was just that Cas was making bad decisions you'd be dealing better than you are now. You didn't even run immediately to the bottle when we locked Sam in the panic room."

"What are you saying, Bobby?" A rolling in Dean's guts told him he already knew exactly what Bobby was alluding to.

The older man looked at the bottle in his hands as if it was the most fascinating thing he'd seen in a long time. Just when Dean was ready to repeat himself, Bobby said, "I'm not going to pretend it makes a lick of sense to me, Dean, but I think you consider Cas your family in a way that Sam and I don't."

"You don't consider Cas family?" Dean asked, surprised.

Bobby looked right in his eyes. "That's not what I said."

"Bobby-"

"I'm not sayin' it's wrong, Dean. God knows I have no business advocating to anyone on the morality of their feelings."

"Bobby, I don't..." He couldn't bring himself to say the words. It was such an incredulous idea, and yet... And yet.

If there hadn't been so much alcohol in his system, Dean's sure he would have been able to mount a defense against such a ridiculous suggestion. Bobby's lips quirked like he knew what Dean was thinking. It pissed Dean off.

"What are you suggesting Bobby? What should I do about my _feelings_? Should we all just sing and hold hands and get all our _kumbayayas_ out and then everything will magically be better? Cas _betrayed_ us, Bobby," he snarled. "He's a fucking liar. He's been lying to me for months—_months_! And I'm just supposed to forgive that? Fuck. That."

The force of his vehemence set Bobby aback for all of about one second, and then he was slamming his bottle onto the table between them, leaning forward even further until their faces were inches apart. "Dean, you are-"

Dean stood. None of this was anything he had to listen to; Bobby was trying to defuse his anger when all Dean wanted to do was clutch it tight. He turned to walk away. "Screw this noise," he slurred.

Bobby was up, out of his chair and in his face before Dean had taken two steps. "I've got one thing to say to you, boy. _No_!" he demanded, when Dean turned from him again, intent on going the opposite direction. "You listen to me, goddamnit!" A hand on his shoulder jerked him around to face the other hunter.

"You were the one that was preachin' about clean slates and forgiveness at Rufus' funeral. About how none of the past or what's coming on down the road really mattered. Do _not_ be a hypocrite now." He released Dean's shoulder with a shove. "Don't you _dare_. You need to move on and forgive that sonovabitch so we can get with savin' the world again already."

With those last shaky words, Bobby whirled away and stomped back towards the house. Righteous fury rolled off the man in waves, feeling like a sobering slap across the face.

**o - o - o - o**

"There are some things I don't know," Sam said, leading Cas towards the sofa in Bobby's den.

Castiel sat, roughly, feeling wrung out and exhausted in a way that he never had from a physical confrontation. The only other time that came close was when he'd woken up in the hospital.

"Between the times I... came here, and now, I suppose." Castiel's face was blank of comprehension, so Sam fidgeted and said "In Heaven, I mean. I know basically what's going on, I can guess at a lot from my memories of the way everyone is and everything, but... it's been a long time."

It shouldn't have been a comfort, to have Sam babbling at him the way he always had whenever he was uncertain, as if a deluge of the facts he did have would compensate for those he didn't, but it was. It was just so quintessentially _Sam_ that Castiel couldn't help but feel himself relax. He didn't know what he'd expected with the fall of Sam's wall, but it certainly wasn't this. The young man (archangel? He wasn't, but yet-well, that was something that could be thought upon later) still waggled his fingers in the same nervous gesture, still had his expressive mouth tug down at the corners just the slightest bit when he was thinking deeply.

"I'm sorry that I underestimated you," Castiel said, and when Sam blinked at him in confusion, the angel realized that the statement must have seemed apropos of nothing. "You know that I actively discouraged Dean from placing your soul back in your body," he explained. "I...suspected what—who-you really were, and...I was frightened for you. Such an epiphany, I thought, couldn't be anything but traumatic, and coupled with your soul's experiences in Lucifer's cage..."

"That does piss me off," Sam said, frankly. At Castiel's wince, he added, "I kinda get it, but I think you need to be more honest with yourself about some of these things, Cas. It wasn't really me that you were all that worried about. It was yourself. And Dean."

They sat in uncomfortable silence for several minutes, and then Sam tentatively said, "The cage...it...it wasn't Lucifer who...Lucifer didn't mistreat me. While I was there with them."

Cas looked at him sharply, but said nothing. Sam took a deep breath and said, "He recognized who I was. Knew who I was, before anything. I'm not sure how he knew I was going to Fall, but he did. He had Azazel seek me out, told me that the reason I was his perfect vessel stemmed from more than just the traces of Nephilim left in my human bloodline. He seemed...well, he was angry to be in the cage, yeah. But it was almost as if he was happy to at least have someone there with him. It was Michael who tormented me."

A hand reached out towards Sam, but then withdrew. Part of Sam felt guilty for that. His brother didn't know how to express human emotions, didn't know what to do with his urge to comfort someone, and that was partially his and Dean's fault. He remembered rebuffing Cas's hug when his human soul had first been reunited with his body and fought a wince. Reaching out to Castiel now though wouldn't fix that, and Sam really didn't want any sort of comforting gesture.

"I am sorry you had to experience brother Michael's wrath, Sam."

Sam laughed, albeit a bit brokenly. "Once my human soul separated from me Michael stopped. I think he was shocked to see me again." A wry twist of his lips, and Sam said, "And once my body was pulled back to earth, Lucifer...he shielded my human soul from the brunt of Michael's rage. I think...in his own way, I think Lucifer loved me. Or maybe it was a sense of possessiveness? Either way, I just know that my soul was just about completely shredded from separating from my body, and Lucifer held it until Death came to retrieve it."

"I can't imagine Lucifer was willing to give up something he saw as his," Cas said, carefully.

Snorting, Sam said, "He wasn't. But he no longer held Death's leash. It wasn't like he had much choice in the matter." Shaking his head, he said, "This really isn't what I want to talk to you about. Eventually Dean is going to crawl back into the house, and I don't want to be talking to you about some of this stuff when he does."

Castiel nodded. "I don't want to be talking about this if I see Dean again, either." The word _if_ tasted like tinfoil on the back of his tongue.

Sam gave him a sharp look. If Castiel had to interpret it, he'd read it as one of disbelief. Ignoring it, Castiel said, "What did you wish to speak of me with, if not about your soul?" Castiel felt—inexplicably, wretchedly—a wave of jealousy pass through him at the words. His brother, Samael, had a _soul_. One of his very own, one that allowed him to experience a full range of emotions and connected him to their Father and-

"Raphael," Sam said. "Why are you his public enemy number one? What has he been doing?"

"The answer to those questions," Castiel said slowly, "are intertwined."

**o - o - o - o**

_It is cold, so cold it almost burns. And wet, sinking the cold straight into the bone. It's the sort of cold that takes a body hours to recover from, even in front of a roaring fire. The sort of cold that you never forget._

_And it's something Castiel has never experienced until now. Why he's feeling it, he's not sure, because it's also the sort of cold that numbs the brain as well as body. Something is __**very**__ badly wrong._

_Struggling to remain awake, he opens his eyes and sees only white at first. When his vision clears, he sees that he is in a mostly submersed cage of icy water. He shudders in horror, tries to force his limbs to work, knows he must try to escape quickly. His vessel is in danger and he knows if he remains in this place he might not be able to heal it._

_He reaches for the bars of the cage and they instantly bond to the metal. With a cry of pain, he pulls back. He feels the frozen skin tear, sees blood solidify as it drips into the icy water. _

_The agony increases as a biting wind blows through the cage, whipping into him like a hundred stinging lashes and stealing his breath. The wind drags upward, pulling crystals of ice into the air, swirling as they reach the clouds above. From this comes bright blue sparks and growling thunder, and a sharp blast of lightning that cracks open the ground beside the cage. _

_The lightning sizzles in the air for a moment, dancing and sparking, then coalesces into the form of Raphael's earthly vessel. Suddenly Castiel knows he is not in his own vessel, that this is an illusion; perfect in its ability to make him feel everything a human would. He is in very deep trouble._

"_Castiel," comes Raphael's deep, impassive voice, "do you know why you are here?"_

_Shuddering painfully, Castiel shakes his head. _

"_I have been informed by Zachariah that you have willfully disobeyed," Raphael says, his voice blank with disapproval. "You've grown too fond of a human. You've let him sway you from your path, listened to him instead of Heaven's order."_

"_But he's my charge, I must help him… however it's possible to help…"_

"_No, Castiel, you must do what we tell you to do. You are not there to help the human."_

"_But that makes no sense," Castiel begins, and instantly regrets it as another crack of lightning burns across his skin. _

"_We did not tell you to think about it, or rationalize it. We told you to follow orders. Nothing more or less. Do you understand?"_

_Castiel nods weakly, whispers, "Yes, yes…"_

"_Good. Then you know what I'm doing is for the best. You must be purified, healed of these growing emotions. Things angels __**do**__**not**__**feel**__. Being in a vessel does not make you human. Do you understand?"_

"_Yes," Castiel rasps, closing his eyes. "Yes, I understand."_

"_A cure is not always pleasant. Medicine does not always taste good. But it is the only way. Before your ill-advised sojourn to earth, you were a disciplined soldier. You will be again. Let me show you the reasons we would never wish to be human." Raphael waves his non-existent hand. _

_The pain should bury Castiel in unconsciousness. But he isn't allowed that mercy. For days, it seems, he lays across the edge of agony bright and sharp as an angel blade. He feels the false vessel break and burn and scream until it bleeds from the inside out._

"_Castiel," comes Raphael's chastising voice when the pain suddenly recedes. "You __**claimed**__ you understood me. You called out for our Father, but he will not answer you because He knows you must learn this lesson. And even among __**those**__ prayers, I see a sliver of thought for your human. I see concern."_

_Castiel wheezes, weeps. Thinking of Dean is unavoidable. Dean is his mistake._

"_Yes, that's more like it," Raphael rumbles with a more satisfied tone. "Now we shall see whether you understand __**what**__ you really are, Castiel. You are not part of your vessel. Pain as you have just experienced is not part of who you are, nor shall it ever be. However… your true self can also be made to feel pain, should you disobey again. Let's demonstrate that, so you do not forget."_

_The illusion of Jimmy's body evaporates, as does the visual of a cage. Yet he is still trapped, Enochian sigils carved into the fabric of space surrounding his form. He trembles as Raphael's form, half again larger than himself, streaked with blue-white_ _snakes of power playing within the cloud of grace, wings of lightning big as galaxies, bursts into being. A semblance of a hand reaches out to stroke Castiel along the face which resembles a lamb in human terms, the one that follows the flock obediently. Raphael's countless supernova eyes blaze at him. "You will remember yourself, Castiel. You cannot forget yourself again."_

_And Castiel heard Dean's voice in his head, thinking loudly enough to reach him. _

_**Cas wouldn't flake out like this, something's wrong.**_

_**Damn it, Cas, what's happened to you? **_

_**C'mon, Cas, we could really use you down here. **_

_Every time Dean thinks Castiel's name, Castiel burns. While he writhes, every moment he ever stood face-to-face with Dean plays in his head. _

_He stalled Heaven's plans to raze a small town to destroy a witch, because Dean declared to Uriel that he would find the witch first, and he felt a miniscule spark of admiration while doing so. Even though their orders were to follow Dean's orders, he sensed Heaven was counting on failure. And he was pleased when Dean succeeded, shared that pleasure with Dean. Even though Castiel didn't tell Uriel, the other angel suspected Castiel's wavering loyalty._

_Dean causes him to feel emotions, so Dean is to blame for his pain. _

_He hesitated many times when forced to confront Dean over Anna. He stood by as Uriel beat Ruby and attacked Dean, and didn't harm Sam. Uriel then confronted Dean in turn, declaring Castiel had begun to like Dean as though it was the greatest sin possible._

_Perhaps it was. Anna accused him of not knowing how to feel, but it was no longer true. Then the biggest shock – he was unable to exorcise Alastair. And Dean saved him. A_ _**human**__ had to save him. He had lost his power because he was being punished for his growing feelings._

_Dean causes his pain. Dean._

_He told Dean he was different. He'd almost said "special". He had nearly shown personal preference. _

_Dean is swaying his thoughts. Dean is hurting him._

_He was demoted because his superiors were concerned about his motives. He regretfully asked Dean to torture Alastair, knowing it was wrong, that it was hurting the human in ways that could be permanent. Still he pushed, and his own heart ached-something he was not supposed to feel. When he went to aid Dean he was nearly expelled from his vessel by Alastair. _

_His doubts led him to face Uriel's murderous betrayal, and he would have surely died again if not for Anna. He was so weakened he could not heal Dean. _

_He is weakened and brutalized because of Dean_.

_He answered Dean's prayer for help and subverted orders, giving Dean all the clues he needed to save Sam from Lilith. They called down Raphael himself to drive her away. He'd interceded, gone against orders – again – because of Dean. _

_He knew that his superiors were planning something enormously big, something that felt very wrong. He decided to disobey entirely, to warn Dean. But they had found him, fought him, ripped him from his vessel. _

_And now he is here. All because of Dean._

_It is always Dean that leads him to pain, the Dean that he's served over heaven's will. He sees that now. Dean is nothing but pain and death to him, and the human is nothing more to Heaven than a tool. Castiel's job is to make Dean see that and obey._

_He suffers because of Dean. He will not make that mistake again._

_And suddenly he is released from his prison. He is falling toward earth, hears the cries of his vessel. Jimmy is dying and his family in mortal danger. Castiel breaks another rule – one that he knows Heaven will forgive, this time only – and takes the body of the girl Claire. Awakens her and defeats the demons, then takes Jimmy's body again to save him and his daughter. _

_And when Dean asks where he had been, what he'd been trying to tell them… he is cold and purely angelic, telling the human he serves heaven, not man. And that he certainly doesn't serve Dean._

**o - o - o - o**

Sam felt himself blanch. "Forceful revelation? He really-"

"Yes," Castiel broke in, almost impatiently. A beat of time pulsed between them, and then Castiel took a deep breath. "I apologize," he said. "It is... not a pleasant memory for me. I do not like to think of my time in his merciful care." The word _merciful_ was spat out mockingly, and Sam wondered when Cas had developed sarcasm. He'd always been so earnest, and Sam disliked seeing the lack of it now. Raphael had more to answer for than his vainglorious attempt to take over Heaven, Sam thought darkly.

"Why did you rebel?" Castiel frowned, and Sam fidgeted as he clarified, "It wasn't very long after the whole Jimmy thing that you full-on rebelled. You knew the potential consequences, and you did it anyways. Why?"

The answer, when given, was said very simply, quietly. "Because I love Dean."

Standing, Castiel moved back to the kitchen. Sam watched with mouth open for a moment as the angel refilled his water glass. Then he couldn't suppress a smile at the confession. Yes, it was obvious, Balthazar hadn't exaggerated there. And, he strongly suspected, Dean was not unaware nor unaffected himself.

Castiel returned with his drink. He knew Cas didn't need the water, but apparently he found the action of sipping it soothing.

"There are several things you need to know." Castiel finally said. "The situation with Rapahel has evolved into more than just a philosophical disagreement between he and I. There was a reason I ordered the Mother's release."

Sam nodded encouragingly.

"Do you recall investigating suicides in Calmut City, Illinois?" Castiel asked.

"Yeah, that was where we ganked Veritas. Why?"

Castiel said, "One lead that Dean thought viable was that the victims had all purchased reeds from the same music supply store. He prayed to me because he believed Gabriel's Horn of Truth may have been the cause of the deaths." Another sip of water, and he admitted, "I offered to investigate. I told Dean that Gabriel's Horn was not in the town, and that was the truth."

"I sense a 'but' here," Sam said.

Lips quirking, Castiel agreed. "Indeed. What I didn't tell him was that Veritas was searching that town for a different Horn on my orders. She...became greedy, and began seeking tribute." He hastened to say, "That wasn't part of our agreement."

"No, no. I get it," Sam assured him, and he did. Heaven had a whole roster of former gods and goddesses who, after the decline of their religions, had sought a new purpose to their existence and began working for angels. "So if it wasn't Gabriel's Horn she was there looking for, which one was it?"

Instead of answering him straight out, Castiel said, "Have you never wondered how, precisely, Raphael plans to begin Armageddon anew? He does not possess the Horsemen rings, and the Lilith necessary to open the final seal has already passed through this existence and onto the next."

Sitting upright, Sam cursed softly under his breath as the pieces fell into place. "The Horn of Judgment."

"Yes." That Horn, Sam recalled, was Raphael's own. It was the horn that was to be blown at the end of times, and one of the few ways the door to Lucifer's cage could be opened.

"She found it. It is now in my possession," Castiel said.

Brows tilting in confusion, Sam said, "But isn't that a good thing? Without that Horn, Raphael can't kickstart Armageddon, even if he really wants to."

"Unfortunately," Cas sighed, "he's aware that I have it, and is determined to get it back. In his anger, he released _him_."

"Who?"

"Sam..." Castiel tiredly said, "Please. I wouldn't release the Leviathan simply for the power of the souls in Purgatory." Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath and said, "He released Behemoth and set him upon my troops."

Sam felt like he'd been punched in the gut. There were few beings in Creation that had the power to destroy angels with sheer force, but Behemoth was one of them. He was the Earth personified; he could reach inside an angel, twist their grace, pull them onto a physical plane, and then destroy them. The last time he'd walked the earth, many of the Host lost their lives gruesomely, their wings grasped and pulled until their bodies split in half and thrown on pyres, a mocking parody of a burnt offering.

Lily's (_Lilith_, or better yet, _Eve_, Sam reminded himself firmly) reaction when he'd attacked Samael had been cataclysmic.

"You do realize the last time those two rumbled the earth flooded for 40 days and 40 nights, right? And that because of it God asked me to..." Sam looked away from Castiel's suddenly sympathetic eyes.

"God asked you to choose, and you locked her away. Yes, I'm aware. You also know she is the only being in all Creation who has the power to challenge him, besides God." Unsaid was the reason why they couldn't rely on Him; Sam already knew, and it was exhausting for Castiel to even think about.

"The main body of my troops has been able to evade Behemoth thus far, but I have to move them constantly. I will not be able to hide them from him indefinitely, even with the power from my cache of souls. He will discover us, and when he does he will take the Horn and Armageddon will begin anew."

The front door clicked open, interrupting their intense conversation. Bobby stepped into the house. He paused upon seeing Castiel and Sam sitting on the sofa but quickly gathered himself.

"You're still here," he said gruffly. "Thought you'd have shagged it back to Heaven by now."

"I didn't think—"

"Yeah, well that much is obvious," Bobby groused, eyes flinty. "If you're sticking around hoping to talk to Dean, don't bother. He doesn't want anything to do with you right now."

Castiel flinched, the skin around his eyes tightening infinitesimally in pain, and Sam felt the protectiveness usually focused on Dean swell upwards. "Bobby," he said warningly, "don't."

"I'm only speaking the truth. He's not in any shape to talk to anyone right now. Maybe if you'd gone out to check on your brother instead of staying in to play footsie with angel-boy here, you'd know that."

Castiel stood abruptly. "You are not going to attempt to stop me?"

"I'd love to," Bobby said. "But realistically? I don't have anything that'll hold you, long term, and you know it."

The angel nodded. "I shall take my leave then."

"Cas, no." Sam stood up as well. "We still have a lot to talk about. Plans to make."

"Focus your prayers on me, and I will hear them," Castiel said. He caught Sam's eye, and Sam jerked as Castiel very clearly thought at him, _You remember how to focus upon one sibling? So you can speak to just me, brother?_

It was Castiel's first direct acknowledgment of their newly-rediscovered familial bond, and a part of Sam (_the girly part_, he could almost hear Dean say) reveled in it. _Yes_, he thought happily. How he could be happy under the force of all that Castiel had told him, Sam wasn't sure, but he still was. He wondered if he should be concerned about that. _Yes, I do._

"Will you come, though?" Bobby scoffed, unable to hear the silent conversation occurring right under his nose. "Or will you be too busy making more insane plans with demons?"

"I will come if I am able, when called. That has not changed, Bobby Singer."

The use of the man's full name seemed to drain him of some of his bluster. He visibly deflated, suddenly looking each one of his years. "That's something, I suppose."

_I'm going to check on Dean_, Sam said to Castiel. _I'll let you know how he's doing when we speak later. Give me a few hours? _

_Yes_, Castiel agreed, relief flowing through his response. He was quiet, staring at Sam for the span of several moments, before saying, _Thank you_.

And then he was gone.

"You mind telling me what the hell that was all about?"

Sam turned to Bobby. "I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about."

"I'm talking about you staying in here with that angel while your brother tries to give himself alcohol poisoning in my yard, that's what I'm talking about!"

Shrugging, Sam said, "There were things we needed to discuss."

"No, kid. You and your brother are gonna be the death of me, I swear." Bobby stepped forward into Sam's personal space. He fought the urge to take a step back. He may be a former archangel bound to human flesh, but Bobby Singer still intimidated the hell out of him. A blunt finger jabbed Sam's chest. "You don't get to be all mysterious, not now. You're going to tell me exactly what you and Cas had to talk about that was so damn important you let your brother crawl off with a bottle of Jack."

The old hunter knew him too well, Sam thought with a grimace. He knew that, given what Castiel had revealed, Sam's attention would normally be on Dean, and sensed something major had to have prevented Sam from going after him. There would be no side-stepping this, even if Sam wanted to.

"What I'm going to tell you," he began, "you can't tell Dean. Not yet."

Bobby froze. "Is this something I should be sitting down for?"

Sam nodded. "Yeah," he sighed. "That's probably a good idea."

**o - o - o - o**

"_Cuz I'm a travelin' man my friend...I've got to travel across this land..._"

Dean lay on his back on in the one sparse patch of grass Bobby had, staring up at the stars and singing softly to himself. One hand rested gently on his chest, the fingers lightly tracing absent circles. This far away from the house and the junkyard's floodlights, he could see them clearly, winking. He was still drunk enough that he allowed himself to think, idly, that they looked like they were mocking him with such cheeky behavior.

Thinking about stars was easier than thinking about the conversation he'd had with Bobby an hour ago. What he'd thought was going to be a sympathetic conversation over beers turned into something else entirely. Dean hesitated to call it a bitching out, but the tone was similar enough.

"Dean?"

Great, more familial guilt, this time in the form of Sammy. Just what he needed. "Go 'way."

Of course, the Sasquatch didn't listen. "Dean, what are you doing out here?"

"Contemplating the mysteries of the cosmos. What's it look like?"

The grass rustled around Sammy's knees as he drew closer. "Offhand? I'd say it looks like you're throwing yourself a pity-party."

Stuff that didn't even make sense came out of Dean's mouth, like word vomit. "You'd know, wouldn't you? Samantha, the big old girl with… big hair and big… hell, everything. You jealous I'm edging into your territory here? Gonna take over your spot as pity queen?" He tilted his head the slightest bit upward and saw Sam looming over him, woobie expression firmly in place.

Ignoring the sloppy tirade, Sam said, "I talked to Cas a little bit-"

"Well, nice to know that he's talking to someone." Dean paused and added, "You give him a polygraph? Make sure the fucker wasn't lying?" Bitter didn't begin to describe how he felt on hearing that Cas was speaking to Sam, trying to explain himself to Sam, probably asking Sam to forgive him, and he'd just let Dean go outside and-

"Would you shut up and listen to me?"

Sam hardly ever raised his voice to Dean. It made him pause, and he wondered how much of what he'd been thinking had been said out loud. Then, softly, Dean said, "Sorry, Sammy."

Flopping down onto the ground next to him, Sam leaned back on his elbows and sighed. "Look, Dean...I know it hurts. It was a hell of a shock to find out what Cas' been doing. And I know it's hard for you, always has been, to forgive and forget. God knows it took you ages to get over everything I've done. Sometimes I'm not entirely you have. You hold things to your heart forever, it seems…"

"Damn it, Sam, I'm not some chick in a Harlequin romance novel," Dean grunted. At Sam's suspiciously raised eyebrow, Dean coughed, "Lisa always had them around the house, and...just, don't ask. Although some of them-"

"Shut up, Dean, I'm not through." Sam kicked his brother's leg. "Anyway, you're a stubborn ass but not a totally stupid one. What Cas has done is… well, pretty bad by any standards. But it's no worse than what we've done ourselves. Don't deny it," he interjected when Dean started to speak. "There've been enough lies tonight. So he screwed up. He's regretting the hell out of it. I promise you, what we talked about – we're gonna fix all this, Dean. We'll all be working together, with no more Crowley or Meg or… any other demons." Sam hesitated to mention the Mother or angels, because he didn't want to be lying himself. "You had to have known we'd get this settled, didn't you? Even while you were blowing up in there?"

Dean was silent for a minute, biting the inside of his lip. "Yeah," he finally admitted. "I don't wanna cut him out, you know. He's been part of my – our lives for years now, and I… I don't wanna lose him. From our lives…" God he was pathetic. Just find his damn pistol and stick it in his mouth, right now.

He must have said that out loud, too, because right afterwards Sam took a turn being silent. "Say, Dean, ah… what's really happening? You know, with you two? Just be straight with me." Dean heard the tiniest repressed giggle.

"What's funny?" He could use some humor; if there was anything funny about this situation, Dean wanted to hear it.

"Nothing, man. Just... can you answer me? What's going on with you and Cas?"

"A whole shitload of nothing, apparently," Dean replied, looking back up at the stars. Orion was bright tonight; Dean found his belt and followed it upward, along the shoulder, to the upright arm...

Sam's smirk was almost audible. "So that's the problem, is it?"

Dean froze. The air in his lungs felt like it'd been made static. Sam's huffing laughter suddenly made sense.

"Are you fucking kidding me? First Bobby, now you?"

Dean turned to the side and buried his face in the dried grass, groaning as his brother chuckled. What the hell. Everyone on earth was turning into a cheap advice columnist and trying to help out "Suddenly Conflicted Sexually in South Dakota". Fuck his life and the Impala it drove in on.

"Look, don't freak out. All I'm saying is that maybe you should explore how he makes you feel."

Dean rolled over and just stared at his brother. Sam shifted, uncomfortable under the force of Dean's disbelief. "What?" he asked slightly defensively.

"Explore, Sam? _Really_?"

"Yes?" Sam said, unable to keep the questioning tone from creeping into his voice. When Dean's eyes just got wider, something very close to hysteria swimming in them, Sam added, "You know, um...think about the time you've spent together and the way he-"

"I don't need advice from you on how to _explore_, Sammy!" Dean yelped, and the tenor of Dean's panic clued Sam in on what exactly Dean thought he'd been suggesting.

Sam couldn't help himself; he started to laugh. "That's not," he gasped out, "what I was saying. Although if you think it would help-"

"Do not finish that sentence, Sam," Dean whimpered. "Don't even suggest it."

"You're the one that brought it up, man," Sam pointed out gleefully.

"Drop it, Sammy. I mean it." Huge green eyes moved from Sam back up towards the sky as his brother said, in a voice that was nearly a whisper, "Please."

Standing back up and brushing the grass from his pants, he said, "Okay, well I'm just gonna..." He jerked his thumb back towards the house.

"Yeah, you do that," Dean said. The grass swished as Sam walked back though it, and then Dean was alone once more, but this time, with even more to think about.

Not that he was even entertaining the idea of taking Sam's suggestion.

Nope. Not one bit.

Although if he were, it would only be because it was better than allowing himself to think about the way Castiel had fallen to his knees earlier and begged Dean for his understanding, the utterly devastated look in Cas' eyes when he'd walked away. Better, because Dean Winchester didn't dwell on things like that.

Dean Winchester _did_ think about things like sex. It was a testament to how screwed everything in his life was when thoughts of what Cas' mouth on his would feel like were the _safe_ ones. When it was easier to imagine getting further into his personal space rather than pushing the angel out of it, when the idea of loosening that ever-present tie and feeling warm skin through that equally ubiquitous white dress shirt was a better alternative to recalling Cas' tortured confessions, when-

Dean came back to himself to realize that his fingers had resumed their light tracing of patterns on his chest. Despite the chill of the night, his body felt flushed, his skin too tight, his clothes too small.

"Fuck," he said, with feeling.


	5. Chapter 5

Rating, warnings, and summary found at Chapter 1.

**NOTE: This chapter has mature content.**_  
><em>

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><p><em>The room is black. Only the faint illumination of the flickering light bulb above his head breaks the darkness. From what Dean can make out, there are water stains on the floor and expanses of industrial-sized pipes overhead. But the details drawing Dean's true concern are the strips of duct tape biting into the flesh of his wrists and ankles, and the slightly splintery old wooden chair he's tied to. Shouting for help is useless, as he finds his mouth is also sealed with tape, tight enough he can't even open his lips to try and lick it loose. <em>

_Who the fuck ties a guy to a chair, in the middle of a dark empty warehouse, under a crappy light bulb, and then leaves? Psycho serial killers with a fetish for cheap mafia movies who've just popped out to sharpen the blades on their chainsaws, that's who. _

_Dean starts struggling in earnest now. If he can wiggle the crappy old chair a little more, something might snap and he can free himself—_

_But a doorway opens in the blackness, casting a long, dramatic silhouette of a man. The light is insanely bright for a moment then vanishes as the door is shut again. He doesn't even hear footsteps crossing the floor, but suddenly the man is in the circle of light where Dean sits. A muffled grunt of relief escapes his throat when he sees it's Castiel. __**Thank God, Cas,**__ he thinks loudly, __**get me the fuck out of here!**_

_Cas tilts his head, contemplating Dean's plight, his face cold. Dean starts to worry, and says, "Hey, c'mon Cas—", realizes his mouth is now duct-tape free, which is just weird but maybe it's angel mojo. Cas doesn't come closer or help in any other way, just stands there looking at him. Dean starts to fidget. And before he can say anything else, the light above sputters and sparks like it does whenever angels give off power. He's getting a little more worried now._

_He only now notices that Cas isn't dressed right. His trenchcoat is missing, and so is his suit jacket. His feet are bare. And he just keeps staring, silent and still. Calmly, Cas' hands go to his belt, undo the buckle and slide the long leather strap from the loops. Dean swallows hard and whimpers, too panicked to protest. This scene is leading to a very bad conclusion, he knows it. _

_Cas pauses, belt in hand, and gives Dean a look of such utter disgust the hunter feels ashamed, though doesn't know what for._

_Then Cas crouches down, lays the belt flat on the floor in a straight line, with the buckle pointed right at Dean. He stands and gives Dean another unfathomably dirty look, and nudges the belt with a bare toe. The belt shifts, shudders, twitches. It coils in upon itself, and when Dean blinks, it's gone and a snake lies in its place. _

_**Why did it have to be snakes?**__ he thinks with mild hysteria as the serpent meanders leisurely across the stained floor toward him. Dean jerks harder at the tape still binding his wrists and ankles, but it's not budging. The snake isn't huge, it's exactly the size of the belt, but it's still a damned snake. He lets out a shaky exclamation of fear as the snake twines up his leg, around his knees, across his belly and chest. Dean's panting whimpers don't even give it pause, for it drapes itself around his shoulders like it belongs there, and rests its diamond shaped head serenely above the handprint brand in his flesh. _

_When the snake stops moving, Dean takes a breath and begins to speak, though why he says the things he does, he has no freaking idea. "'Baby' is just a nickname, Cas. Like what Sammy and I say to each other. 'Bitch'. 'Jerk'. So… 'Baby'. Like a family name."_

_Throughout his babbling, Castiel continues staring, but at the words 'family name', his lips thin and his jaw clenches…_

But if he'd intended to speak, Dean would never know because he woke with a jolt.

_Goddamn_. He'd spent the whole evening before this drinking himself half to death so he wouldn't think about the angel, then goes and has a fucking weird dream about him.

And now he couldn't get back to sleep, and it was still dark enough outside that the others wouldn't be awake yet. He didn't want to be alone with his thoughts right now, and drinking himself to sleep again was a really bad idea if the rolling in his gut was an indication. He had a kind of raw and gritty feeling to his brain, and knew that he'd never sleep unless he found a way to tire himself completely.

The two best ways he knew were beating the shit out of monsters – not an option at the moment, unless he wanted to die. Or he could beat on himself. Yeah, that was better.

He felt a little tacky from the night of drinking and passing out in his clothes, so he figured he could take care of business in the shower. He rolled out of the lumpy old bed in one of Bobby's many spare rooms, and started to strip.

While it did relax him physically, the emotional and mental crises he found himself spontaneously trying to sort out during that shower ought to have kept him awake for the next week. But he fell quickly into a dreamless sleep afterward, and didn't wake again until Sam pounded on his door several hours later to tell him they had a case.

**o - o - o - o**

Enoch, Utah

"I said they'll be here, and they'll be here."

Dean's eyes surveyed the room. He didn't doubt Bobby's word, but he was feeling anxious sitting around and waiting. They'd been called to Utah by one of Bobby's contacts; apparently the resort town of Lake Powell was lousy with portents and dead tourists. Thus far the local authorities had managed to keep the deaths under wraps, but that wasn't going to last long at the rate people were disappearing. Once all the visitors to the man-made lake caught wind and panicked, the chances for the hunters to find out what was happening slimmed considerably, and it was important that they find the monsters responsible and stop them quickly. Dean knew this, but he couldn't help feeling that this was an unnecessary side-trip, a distraction from the big rumble-to-come with Eve and Castiel's betrayal. The two things that had been eating Dean's brain, and that he still didn't know how to deal with.

They were over a hundred-fifty miles west in the town of Enoch (and if that wasn't a dead giveaway the apocalypse was nigh, then Dean wasn't having the gay crisis that was a long time coming) sitting in a honky-tonk waiting for Bobby's contact. The place was decked out; ropes and saddles lined one wall, posters from various western-themed movies another. It was the type of place that, prior to his trip to the actual Wild West, Dean would have loved. Still did, if he was being completely honest with himself, but he and complete honesty didn't have the best relationship at that moment.

It was packed. Warm bodies rubbed against one another in an age-old dance of casual desire and salacious intent. The table he and Bobby were huddled around was shoved in the corner, as far away from the press as they could get. Despite this, they still had tipsy patrons stumble into their conversations or hip-check their table.

Dean had turned down more than one offer for a drink. Hell, he'd turned down more than five, and they'd only been in the bar for a half hour. All the attention being paid to him was making him edgy. He still had too much on his mind, especially after the last night at Bobby's house. When his mind started to wander back to that shower, he twitched, and was certain people were noticing and somehow psychically knew he was internally fretting over his non-heteronormative fantasies. He felt even more certain Bobby knew, since the old bastard had started the ball rolling down that particular hill with his big fat mouth, aided and abetted by Dean's own jackass baby brother. He wanted to clobber them both for the emotional damage.

He grumbled and shifted in his seat. "I don't like this, Bobby. There's too many people."

The older hunter shrugged. He should have seemed out of place in the popular bar, but he blended seamlessly into the background, like a living, breathing prop. There was another curmudgeonly man in the opposite corner giving them the hairy eyeball, and Dean wondered cynically if he'd been paid by the owners of the establishment to set up there to give their theme a bit more verisimilitude, and now felt threatened by Bobby's presence.

"Son, it's near a tourist town and everyone knows something big's happening there, so it brings out the rubberneckers, and they all gotta drink somewhere. What'd you expect?"

"Hell, I don't know," Dean admitted. "Maybe I shoulda gone with Sam to meet the hunter-geeks. I feel like we're just pissing time away here. How're we supposed to find your buddies in this mess?"

"Vern said they'd be hard to miss. He's been hunting with a new guy. Big, I guess."

"Big?" Dean said. "That's the description you got? Big?"

Bobby nodded across the room. "I'd say it was good enough. Looks like that's them."

Big, Dean thought in silent apology to Bobby, was a perfectly adequate description as two men moved towards their table. One, about Dean's height, Bobby's age, and Castiel's build (damn it, he told himself he wasn't going to think about-!) stumbled through the crowd with winces and mumbled apologies. The man next to him, however, was a walking wall of muscle that veritably flowed through the bodies. Whereas some men his size would have used their mass to push and shove others out of their way, this man somehow maneuvered himself around them in a manner that was both graceful and intimidating as hell. When both men reached the table (the older man—Vern, Dean assumed—breathing heavily) Dean barely restrained a low whistle. The big guy was a trip.

Shaggy ginger hair brushed the nape of his neck, but was cropped close at the front in one of the most restrained mullets Dean had ever seen. On either side of his face, his mutton chops—if they could even be properly called that—were cut into elaborate swirling designs, extending from his temple down to his chin. A muscle shirt (_the kind Arnold wore in the 80s_, Dean thought) with careful placed slashes framed and displayed large expanses of bronzed skin stretched across ridiculously enormous, looping muscles. This shirt was tucked in (tucked in, _seriously_?) to a pair of jeans that were just about the tightest Dean had ever seen. (And Dean had watched _The Song Remains the Same_, okay, and he didn't know that jeans could come tighter than what Plant had been rocking at that show.)

"Geez, when you said big, Bobby, I didn't know that you meant he was going to be giving Gigantor a run for his money," Dean said, voice low.

"Hey Bobby," Vern said, snagging an unoccupied stool from a nearby table. Tired gray eyes met Dean's as he held out a hand to shake. "You must be Dean," he said. "Meetcha." They shook, and then Vern plopped onto the stool waved a hand towards the giant, "Bobby, Dean, this is Clay."

"Of course it is," Dean smirked. He held out his hand to the enormous man, and then realized how snide his comment had sounded. It wasn't very bright to be mouthing off to a man with enough mass to make pro-wrestlers envious. Clay didn't look insulted, though. In fact, he smirked back and held out his hand in return. This close, Dean could see that his nose was pierced—well, actually, the septum—with a captive bead ring. "I am pleased to meet you, Dean Winchester," he said, in a voice that was fathomlessly deep. His eyes—dark, nearly black-brown—focused on Dean with an almost unnerving intensity (an intensity he was only used to seeing in a certain someone he's definitely not thinking about).

Unaccountably flustered, Dean awkwardly shook Clay's hand and said, "Pull up a chair, man." The other man nodded, just once, slowly, and turned to do just that. Dean's gaze was drawn downward, and that was when he saw them.

They were beautiful. Quite possibly the most beautiful he'd ever seen. Delicately tooled leather in rich black and cognac comprised the shaft, which was ordinary enough, Dean supposed, but that lead down into what appeared to be soft crocodile skin, which stretched from the base of the heel to the very tip, and there, mounted right on the top...

"Dude, is that-?" Dean said, staring.

Clay grinned. His smile was just as large as the rest of him; it nearly encompassed his entire face. "Yes," he said, sounding amused and prideful, "it's a Cayman head. One on each boot. See?" He stretched, setting one cowboy-boot clad foot on top of the stool he'd brought over (how he was able to do this without busting a seam in his pants was anyone's guess) and gestured down. "Pretty damn cool, aren't they?"

"Hell, yes," Dean breathed.

After that there were no lingering traces of awkwardness. While Bobby and Vern talked about signs and portents and, hell, for all Dean knew, double rainbows, he and Clay found their way to the bar counter, where they played an impromptu version of hunter's "I never", checked out women, and discussed their favorite forms of weaponry.

It was good; in fact, it was great. Clay was an attentive listener, and if he was a bit slow in his answers sometimes, as if he had to think really hard before stringing together the words, well, not a big deal. It wasn't like most guys really sat around all that often and chatted anyways; he probably wasn't used to it. He'd mentioned that he'd spent a long time alone before meeting up with Vern, and being a hunter didn't exactly engender great people skills. Still, he had some wild hunting stories, he was buying the shots, and (perhaps most importantly) being in his presence didn't threaten Dean in the terrifying, emasculating way that even thinking about Cas seemed to create the past several days. He was a man, sitting with another man, speaking about and doing manly things.

He was not thinking about betrayals, not in the least. Not the ones from those he considered family, and certainly not the betrayals of his flesh, that had stirred to aroused awareness at the thought of—

And he was absolutely not thinking about the betrayals of his own mind, how it was whispering to him that maybe, just perhaps, he was being too hard on Castiel. About how when he'd been so panicked and desperate himself during the last apocalypse (and damn it, that should never be a phrase a guy has to consider; one had been more than enough, thanks) that he'd almost done some nearly unforgivable things, like turning away from family, like betraying their trust. Like saying yes to Michael to keep Lucifer from destroy the planet just to get it to end. Because he'd believed there was no other option…

"How about another round?" Dean rapped his knuckles on the counter and gave the bartender his most winning smile. He leered at her cleavage as she poured, and Clay continued to describe the large nest of shifters that he'd singlehandedly cleared out. _This_, Dean thought, _is perfect_.

Too bad Dean knew that he and honesty were on the outs; otherwise he might have believed himself.

**o - o - o - o**

Three hours, several hundred printouts, and more dusty tomes than he cared to recall later, and Sam was no closer to figuring out what the hell was happening in Lake Powell than he had been when they'd arrived.

He was sitting at an expansive table in the private library of the local hunter, a woman named Holly with close-cropped white-bleached blonde hair and a voice like pea-gravel being thrown at tin sheeting. She sat across from him, shit-kicker boots propped on another chair, chewing her bottom lip as she absently reached for the yogurt cup beside her. Sam was picking at his own (pineapple yogurt seeming just this side of wrong to him, but he was too polite to outright refuse it) as he flipped another page in yet another book. Two other hunters whose names he hadn't caught sat on the other side of the room, talking quietly.

"This is getting us nowhere, Sam," Holly said, tossing her book aside as if it weren't a precious, possibly irreplaceable piece of medieval literature. "What do you say we go out and inspect the death spot themselves? Maybe you'll pick up on something I missed out there."

"Yeah, I guess," Sam agreed, pinching the bridge of his nose. He liked researching usually, but it did feel as though, in this case, that he was missing a vital piece of information that would make everything snap into place. It was extremely frustrating; he knew the answer was just out of his grasp, taunting and teasing some corner of his mind. He had a feeling that once he realized what was going on he'd be feeling pretty dense for not having figured it out sooner.

Despite how much they looked, though, there seemed to be nothing to connect the three groups of deaths besides Holly's hunch and another definitely impending apocalypse. Maybe going back out to scenes would help. "Run me through the basics again before we go?"

"Sure." Holly stood, boots hitting the ground with a heavy thud, as she stretched for a map tacked up on the wall. Instead of carefully unpinning it, she ripped it down and tossed it in front of him. All four corners were tattered as if this was a common occurrence for the poor scrap of paper. "The bodies were found here," Holly leaned over and tapped a finger to the GPS printout, "here, and... here."

"And they were all the different?" Sam asked. "The bodies, I mean. They were all killed in the different manners, from site to site?"

"Yup," Holly sighed, flopping down a rolling leather chair. "I've been digging through lore for days and found nothing that connects the different styles, either. One group was burned, the second vivisected, and everyone in the third group's bones were ground to paste."

Sam winced.

"There's a ritualistic style to it, the bodies laid out in some kind of pattern, but nothing I've ever seen." She pulled out crime scene photos someone had wrangled from the police, aerial views to show the bodies and their positioning. "Four bodies in the first set, found on the 4th. Five in the second, found on the 10th. And three in the latest, on the 16th. We got no idea if more will show up. But if they do, it'll probably be like the others – next to a big old sinkhole."

Sam paused. "Wait… sinkhole?" he said, the small hair on the back of his neck rising. "Those common around here?"

"Not real common," Holly admitted, "but they're not unheard of, either."

"Show me where the sinkholes were in relation to the bodies?" Sam asked, fighting off his growing anxiety.

"Yeah," Holly gestured to the three pink highlighter circles on the map. "That's where the bodies were found, right? Well, the X's here beside them? Giant sinkholes."

"Fresh?"

"I guess looks like, which is strange in and of itself, but I'm not a real expert on..." Holly trailed off, then said, "You know something."

"I suspect something," Sam replied. He grabbed a piece of paper and pencil, studied the gruesome photos for a second then roughly sketched out the shape their bodies were posed in (his drawing skills hadn't improved over the years, but at least he could make a stick figure). When he'd done all three photos, he stared at them for a second. There was an itching in the back of his brain, but at least he knew it wasn't the wall in his head anymore. The shapes, they could have been numbers… Or letters, but it wouldn't be English.

He grabbed his laptop and searched online for alphabets with non-Latinized script. He quickly determined it was Hebrew and matched the body patterns to the letters. _Bet, He, Mem, Vav, Tav._ His hackles rose again, because that was too familiar. One more quick search and he knew the word, and after searching for Kabalistic magic, he knew the number of bodies fit a pattern as well. Four, five, three. The number of at least one particular beast.

His face must have shown he'd reached a conclusion, as Holly cleared her throat and said, "Care to share with the class now? What are we hunting?"

_Shit_, Sam thought. He knew exactly whom the hunters were targeting. He also knew that if they found him, they'd all die. There was just no way the average hunter was equipped to take on the Behemoth.

A deep breath, and he focused within himself, tuning in to Castiel on Angel Radio. (Dean's description of the way angels communicated one-on-one as being like CB radio was pretty accurate, actually. There were public signals, like an ordinary radio station: those were the ones that the majority of the angels used. Then there were private ones, like CB signals, that you could access with know-how and the proper equipment. Sam wasn't in any big hurry to tell his brother that. Dean was incorrigible enough and Sam didn't need a gleefully dubbed CB handle like 'Samantha Fivehead'.)

_Cas_, he thought, _we've got a problem down here. A big one._ He was loathe to actually think 'Behemoth' over the radio, because even though he'd taken what measures he remembered to ensure that their conversation was private, there was always the possibility that they could be overheard. _**B-i-g**_, he stressed, and hoped that the angel would get it.

His cell phone rang. An unfamiliar number flashed across the screen, but he answered anyways.

"Hello?"

"Where are you?"

"Cas," Sam breathed. "Lake Powell, Utah. Green house on the edge of—"

"Hello, Sam."

Holly, to her credit, didn't shriek at the sudden appearance of a stranger. She did pull out her gun and point it, albeit waveringly, at Castiel.

"It's okay! Holly, it's okay!" Sam said, hands held out towards the twitchy hunter. "He's a friend."

"Holy shit!" one of the random hunters said, his gun trained on Castiel as well. The other didn't say a word, but had pulled a machete and was gripping the handle like he was trying to decide where the best spot for a first strike would be.

"Just hold on, everyone. This is Cas, he's a friend of mine," Sam insisted. The two hunters on the opposite side of the room relaxed infinitesimally, but Holly stood her ground.

"He just appeared out of thin air, Sam," the woman said, as if Sam had missed that fact. "In my experience, things that just_ randomly appear out of thin air_ are not our friends!"

"He didn't randomly appear; he called and asked where we were," Sam said, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. He tried to remember how rattled he'd been when Cas had first started popping in and out of his and Dean's motel rooms, but it seemed so long ago now, so distant. Cas had been their friend for longer than he'd been a creature to be frightened of, and it was hard to think of him as anything else.

"Really," Sam stepped forward and gently tipped the barrel of her gun downward, "It's fine. It's good. I just need to talk to him for a sec, okay?"

Still uncertain, but seemingly willing to trust him, Holly said, "Will he be able to help us take out whatever monster this is?"

"This monster's is a bit out of our league," Sam said. "Cas is more like our search-and-rescue guy. We need to get everyone on this hunt pulled off and brought back here, right now, and we need to slap stronger wards around your property."

Holly lost the tenseness of her body, her hands going limp at her sides. "Boys," she called to the hunters behind her, "Could you step into the kitchen for a little bit? Give Sam, me and his buddy here a moment to talk?"

There was a discontented grumble (only from one of the hunters, the skinny blond with long hair and a beanie; Sam couldn't recall the other guy saying a word at all) but both stood and shuffled out of the room.

"Sam Winchester," Holly said, once the two men were safely out of earshot, "I heard a rumor that you defeated the Devil himself. What could possibly scare you off a hunt?"

"The Behemoth," Castiel said, not as an answer to her question but as an inquiry towards Sam. "You're certain he's here?"

"Behemoth? That's the name of the Big Bad?" Holly interjected. "How do we kill it?"

"Where's Dean?" the angel asked, ignoring Holly.

"With another couple of hunters he and Bobby went to meet." Licking his lips, Sam thought, _We need to get all the hunters that we can back here and ward this place._

_Agreed_, Castiel nodded. _But Dean and Bobby are priority. _

_No argument here, _Sam responded. Maybe before, when he was completely the human Sammy Winchester, he would have felt traces of guilt about placing his family's lives above those of others, but with the fall of the wall he'd become less concerned about humanity as a whole and more so on those closest to him

"Excuse me? Are either one of you going to fucking answer me?"

Sam looked back at the irate woman and was about to respond somewhat diplomatically when Castiel ruined it and said, "No."

"Oh hell no," Holly spit. "You did not...in my own...!" Stomping—literally stomping—her foot, Holly seethed, "I don't know who or what the fuck you think you are, but you just pop into my house and then start throwing orders around and you're not even going to have the decency to tell me what the hell is going on?"

"We don't have time for this," Cas growled, twirling towards the woman. He pressed two fingers to her forehead before she had a chance to lift her gun again. Her body slumped and he caught it, barely, and set her lolling frame on a nearby chair.

"Cas," Sam sighed, exasperated.

"I was not going to waste time on platitudes when Behemoth is in this town and Dean is about," Cas hissed. "Now where is he?"

"Bar about a hundred-fifty miles west of here. Are you—"

Sam never got to ask his question, though, because as soon as the vague directions were out of his mouth, the angel was gone.

"Damn it, Cas," he muttered, looking from the prone woman to the darkened doorway that led to her kitchen, wondering how he was going to explain Holly's unconsciousness to her other guests.

**o - o - o - o**

The thing about alcohol, Dean remembered much too late ('too late' being after who-knows-how-many shots), is that while it's often great for wiping out things you don't want to think about, there are times when it will be a tricky bitch by bubbling through your blood, twisting you around and making you obsess over exactly what it was you were drinking to forget.

He was experiencing one of those times.

Dean tried to focus on Clay, he really did. The enormous man's attitude was calm and understated; Dean thought that maybe if he hadn't drunk quite so much Clay might have been a grounding influence, perhaps kept him from his circular, obsessive brooding over Castiel. But he _had_ drunk quite so much, and now he barely heard a word the other man said. All evening he'd found himself glancing at strangers and noticing things – dark messy hair here, blue eyes there, the stubble on damned near every man in the room – and taking yet another drink to chase away the longing that inevitably followed. Dean was even now tripping amongst thoughts of the angel and the aching, bone-deep confusion he now felt towards him.

And damn, was Dean confused.

_The quick shower and wank would be simple and would soothe away the last of his irritability. Always worked before. _

_Dean stepped into the chipped old tub, slid the curtain closed and turned on the tap until the water was just this side of too hot. He was tired enough that every little detail of his surroundings stood out vividly. The spray pelted him in irregular streams, as one part of the shower head had holes mostly closed over with corrosion. The grout in the blue wall tiles was cracked in so many places it was barely there anymore. The soap was old and a little dried out, but at least it smelled pretty good. Irish Spring. He lathered up his hands with it, wiped languidly down his throat, both arms, up under his pits, and then slowly over his chest. Fingertips stroked on nipples until they were hard peaks. Hmm, nice. Soap bubbles slid down his stomach, dipped into his navel, soaked into his pubic hair and sluiced around his already hardening cock. Yeah, this was working. _

_Sighing heavily into the steam, Dean lathered his hands again, and slid one down his belly (not quite as flat as it used to be, getting old) and let his fingers thread through the rough hair, snagging and teasing. Fingers skimmed over his cock, now rigid and standing out eagerly. He looked down at it, and though he'd seen it a million and one times, it suddenly seemed to belong to someone else. His gut tingling oddly, he stroked it with just two fingers, as though mapping it. No, still his. But the feeling didn't quite leave. He gripped his cock, gliding his hand out and back slowly, watching as it appeared and disappeared between his fingers. It was pretty damned hot, looking at it like this, pretending it wasn't his._

_Soon he couldn't ignore the aching in his groin, and just closed his eyes, the strokes growing rougher. Now his dick felt like his own again, but his hand didn't. God damn, he'd love to have someone else do this again, it'd been months since he'd gotten laid. The feel of a woman's hands or mouth or pussy around his dick was like nothing else. Women were soft and delicious, and men were… he had no idea, really. He didn't think it would be awful beyond words to be sucked off by a guy, a mouth was a mouth after all. But he didn't know about returning the favor. Not quite there yet._

_Maybe handling another guy's dick wouldn't be horrible either. He knew his way around, at least, which was more than he knew when he first had sex with a woman. His thumb rubbed teasing circles over the head, while his other fingers ran along the ridge underneath, back to his balls, and forward again. Cock was nice, in its way, he supposed. He certainly didn't hate his own. Yeah, he could probably deal with jerking another guy off. Maybe._

_Kissing… Hmm. His tongue flicked out to stroke his lips, and he instantly wished it was Cas' lips instead. Oh God, he was done for. Those lips were unbelievable, shouldn't belong to a guy, let alone an angel of the Lord. They were pure sin, especially combined with those fucking gorgeous blue eyes. God damn it… _

_His gut clenched tighter and his hand sped up, twisting and squeezing harder over the head of his cock. A soft groan passed his lips and it echoed very slightly in the room, letting his imagination turn it into someone else's voice. That voice shouldn't have affected him either, too deep and not remotely feminine, deeper even than his own voice. But every time Cas spoke it vibrated something inside Dean; he'd always thought it must be some weird angelic thing, though no one else seemed aware. Fuck it, fuck it… _

_Too hard to think now, the peak was so near. But suddenly he switched hands, letting his left take over pulling his dick desperately as his right trailed up his left arm to his shoulder, to the scar the angel had branded into his flesh…_

_His fingers sank into the mark and felt his cock spasm like it would leap off his body. Dean gasped at the strength of his orgasm, which went on and on, wracking him until he let go of his shoulder. God damn, he'd never actually tried that before. Apparently for good reason, since he could barely stand up. He turned toward the wall and braced himself. The wall was surprisingly cool in the steam, and he laid his cheek against it, trying to breathe his way through the shakes. Son of a bitch…_

_**Castiel, you feathery bastard, what the hell have you done to me?**__ he thought. Then hoped fervently he hadn't thought it loud enough to be overheard by said feathery bastard. Wincing with embarrassment, Dean washed the come down the drain, rinsed himself again, and stepped out of the shower. Still a little wobbly. And suddenly exhausted. _

_He fell asleep within seconds of hitting the sheets, and fortunately did not dream of Castiel nor get a visit from the angel. When he'd reawakened, he'd resolutely put thoughts of Ca—all thoughts of Cas—out of his mind. Thoughts wouldn't help, thoughts—_

"Let the thoughts come," Clay whispered into Dean's ear, and that was odd, but Dean was in such a haze from his memories and the buzz of alcohol that he couldn't work out why. "More. Think on him and he will come. Just like you want him to, don't you?" Clay's breath was sticky-warm and laughing on the shell of Dean's ear, uncomfortable, but he still grunted his agreement. "I didn't think this would take so long," the big man continued. "You tolerate alcohol very well, Dean Winchester."

"Get away from him."

**o - o - o - o**

Dean Winchester, Castiel was beginning to think, might be more trouble than he was worth.

Sam had kept his promise to the angel; hours after he'd left Bobby's house, Sam had contacted him—voice tinged with a hint of amusement that Castiel didn't understand—that Dean would be fine, but to '_give him a few days_'. Their conversation drifted from there, covering various angelic issues (it was a comfort to be able to speak frankly to someone about the war) and what Eve's motivation was now that she was loose upon the earth, but ended where it had begun.

_You're certain Dean will not find my actions unforgivable_? Castiel had asked, and Sam's reassurance had been warm, if tinged with exasperation.

_I'm sure_, Sam replied. _Like I said, give him a few days. It's a lot for him to process._

Begrudgingly, Castiel had taken Sam's advice and stayed far away from the Singer house. There _had_ been a moment the day after their confrontation when Dean's frantic thoughts had broken through his misery and he'd feared for the man's well-being. But the only thing Dean had been fighting was his traitorous body and brain, and in such a manner that Castiel trembled and closed his mind to him.

Following the revelation of Dean's disconcerted lust, Castiel threw himself into his duties as commander of his troops. Details that he'd normally delegate Castiel saw to personally, from planning to implementation; brothers and sisters amongst his soldiers that he'd not spoken directly to before found themselves meeting their leader for the first time. His inner circle noticed the changes, of course. It would be difficult for them not to. But they were good soldiers, and didn't question their commander.

Castiel wished that they would. It would be a sign the war wasn't pointless.

It was in the middle of said such mindless duties that Castiel received Sam's call of distress. They'd spoken, briefly, in the intervening time (not much more than a quick 'are you well?' and confirmation from each, despite how desperately Castiel had wanted to ask after Dean) but this was the first time Sam had requested his presence.

He wished it had been under different circumstances.

As he flew towards Enoch, Castiel shuffled through worst-case scenarios, trying to prepare himself for what he'd encounter once he'd found Dean. Past experience told him the man had an unfortunate tendency to find himself in the middle of the most precarious aspects of a hunt. He didn't dare to hope that this time would be any different.

It wasn't.

As soon as his vessel's feet touched the ground in Enoch, he knew Behemoth was close. Extremely close. His lungs clenched and a blinding pain splintered across his forehead; he was temporarily blinded. When his vision cleared, he was breathing heavily, feeling wretchedly human. Sweat beaded on his skin, rushing to the surface. He was bound to the earth, grounded. All of his power, that natural to him being an angel and that gathered from souls, was gone.

This was not good. It went beyond not good, past bad and straight into terrible. Swallowing hard, he fought a wave of fear for Dean's well-being and gathered his bearings. It appeared he was at the side of a dusty road. To the left, there was a line of cars and motorcycles; to his right, a small one-story building with rotting siding and a weather-beaten sign proudly proclaiming _Now Air-Conditioned next _to a flashing neon sign advertising beer.

_I believe I have found the bar_, Castiel said to Sam, hoping that he would still be able to communicate with the hunter. It seemed his was not completely powerless, because almost instantly he received an answer.

_Great_, Sam replied, and Castiel could feel his relief trickle through the connection. _But why are you telling me this? Grab 'em and get back here. _

_I...can't_, Castiel admitted, and alarm spiked through Sam as the angel grimly said, _I think it would be best if you summoned Balthazar. Tell him everything you know. He will be able to assist us._ To himself he thought, _I hope_, but Sam heard him anyways.

_You hope? Cas, what's—is Dean ok? Bobby?_

_I do not know_, Cas said, and abruptly shut off their communication. He could feel Sam pounding at the back of his brain, demanding entrance, but Castiel shoved aside his concerns and focused on what was in front of him. A couple stumbled out of the bar, clutching each other tightly and laughing uproariously. They brushed past the angel without a second glance.

A third patron followed behind them, slightly more cognizant. He paused in the doorway, holding it open. When Cas didn't immediately move forward, the man slurred, "Hey, you going in or what?"

"Yes." Cas took a deep breath and walked forward. "Yes, I'm going in."

The interior was poorly lit, the air thick with cigarette smoke. He squinted past the crowd, scanning the back walls and furthest corners; if he was lucky, Bobby and Dean would be there, innocent still as to the destructive presence very nearby.

Bobby he spotted quickly. An unfamiliar man sat across a tiny table from him, gesturing with condensed movements that would signal to those who knew how to look that he was more than capable of taking care of himself. Dean, however, wasn't there. Another quick scan of the bar didn't reveal the man to Castiel's presence. He squashed a small flare of panic.

Focus, he told himself. Another steadying deep breath, and he concentrated on the connection he had with Dean, the connection he'd not allowed himself to open since overhearing the hunter while he was in the throes.

Dean's thoughts were muddled, but definitely present. A half-turn to the right, and—there. His relief was extremely short-lived. Shock stiffened his body and he felt his vessel's heart race as he saw who—what-was seated on the stool next to Dean. There was no mistaking Behemoth for anything other than what he was. If sluggish flow of energy funneling upwards from the earth itself into the man hadn't been indication enough, the vessel's commanding presence would have been more than enough to make Castiel suspicious. Just as Eve had needed a specific type of vessel, so would Behemoth, and the corded muscles and barely-leashed physicality of the being next to Dean perfectly matched the beast's needs.

The angel watched in rising horror as Behemoth inched closer to Dean and leaned down towards his ear. He saw one of the vessel's massive hands stroke down Dean's back in a possessive, encouraging manner, saw Dean drowsily nod his approval at whatever was being whispered to him. Practical reasoning flew out of his head, and in a handful of seconds, he'd rudely elbowed his way through the thick crowd to directly behind Behemoth.

"Get away from him."

It was rash, Castiel knew. There was no internal debate, though, no small voice screaming at him the foolishness of his behavior. He could have gone to Bobby and his friend and shepherded them to safety before engaging himself in this confrontation, but it was likely the hunters wouldn't have listened to his pleas to remove themselves. He could have waited until Behemoth's attention was drawn elsewhere, could have slipped next to Dean then and pulled the hunter's arm over his shoulder and to try walking him out the door. Any of those situations had too many variables, though, too many opportunities for failure. There was only one way (in the few seconds he thought about it) to increase Dean's chances of walking out of this bar alive from absolutely none to unlikely.

Behemoth straightened very, very slowly. The patrons closest to their trio hushed their conversations, sensing something was amiss. A few titillated gasps filtered their way, but they were unimportant. Behemoth turned around. Dark, dark eyes, the color of rich, freshly composted leaves affix themselves on the angel. Their owner smiles.

"Castiel," Behemoth said, pacing his words slowly, "Good of you to make it."

"Cas?" Dean asked, turning around on his stool. He clutched the counter behind him for support as he swayed in his seat. "Whattaya doing here?"

"Dean, are you okay?" He took a step towards the human. "Are you-"

Behemoth, Castiel had always read, was a slow and ponderous creature, incapable of quick movement or thought, just like the earth itself. This was incorrect. Behemoth, as it turns out, was capable of swift movement. Especially when someone was doing something he didn't like.

With a fleet, single open-handed slap, Behemoth cracked Castiel across the face. The force of the impact sent his body careening sideways through tables, chairs, and patrons, until it finally slammed into the wall. Nausea swelled through him as he choked, trying to pull air into his lungs but unable to do more than gasp.

There were a few screams and the roar of a shotgun blast followed by a crunch that could only mean one thing. Castiel prayed the shooter had not been Bobby. The sound of many feet moving quickly thundered through the high-pitched whine that pierced his ears as the patrons panicked, stampeding out of the bar. He spit and gasped, but still couldn't pull in any oxygen; blindly, he reached for something to pull himself up, but felt only shattered wood and broken glass.

Dean was shouting his name somewhere above his head. Castiel opened his eyes and looked up. Behemoth stood between Dean and the angel, and he was holding the man back with one arm. Dean struggled, and Behemoth laughed.

"Dean, go," he said, struggling into an upright position. Dean fought harder against the beast, but he was no match for Behemoth sober, let alone as inebriated as he was. "Go!" Castiel bellowed. Behemoth laughed again.

"Your pet is not the brightest, is he Castiel?" Behemoth laughed again. "Probably does not know, even now, what it is he sat beside. But I suppose you did not choose him for his intelligence." With a flex of his fingers, he pushed Dean backwards. The man tumbled over a tipped stool and fell, hard, on his backside.

"You lying sack of shit!" he shouted from his spot on the ground, face red with fury. "You _fucker_! You sit here all night, acting like a goddamned hunter, but you're just a fucking monster whose been killing innocent people!" Dean pulled out his pistol from the back of his jeans and aimed at the Behemoth's head.

Behemoth sneered, "Right, you're so upset that I faked being human. That's your entire problem here." The monster rolled his eyes toward Castiel, grinned wide, and leered back at Dean. "Lie to yourself, Dean? It's pathetic. But it won't matter in a few minutes when I tear off your dream lover's wings and make him eat them."

"Dean, c'mere!" Castiel heard Bobby say, and though he couldn't see the man from his spot on the floor, he was glad of this proof that he was present. Bobby would get Dean out of the bar and to safety, once he knew what it was they faced. He was not a hero in the same manner that Dean was; Bobby was closer in temperament to himself and now Sam. He'd do what needed doing to protect his own, even at the cost of others.

Glass crunched under boots as Behemoth advanced towards him. He leaned down and, with one meaty hand grasped Castiel by the neck, thick fingers biting painfully into the soft flesh just under his ears. Standing smoothly, he lifted the angel's body and playfully shook him. Castiel gurgled, hands instinctively scratching at the pressure, but Behemoth held him tight.

"No!" Dean yelled, and unloaded a full magazine of bullets into the back of Behemoth's skull. The shells imbedded themselves partway into Behemoth's skull, sticking there like they'd hit thick mud. He grunted at the impact but barely twitched. "Leave him alone, you asshole, with your...cowboy boots and...big muscles and your goddamned piece of shit hairdo!" When the bullets were gone, he reached for another magazine.

Behemoth stood there chuckling. He shook his head and the flattened casings pinged to the ground. "Pathetic," Behemoth said. "Dean Winchester, you are the most transparently repressed man I've ever met. Considering my age, that's _really_ saying something." Then he looked back at Castiel, grinned, and tossed him.

He flew across the room like a doll tossed by a petulant child, crashing into a wall covered with saddles. The impact snapped something within, and Castiel cried out in pain. He forced his eyes open wide and gritted out, "Dean, go!" again, as if the man would somehow decide to listen this time, even though Castiel had already demanded that very same thing twice before. The hunter just continued to say his name, over and over again, wet, broken denials.

"This is a waste of my time and talent," Behemoth lamented. "And I do not even have the reward of splitting you asunder at the end; Raphael wants that honor for himself."

_Sam_, Castiel thought desperately, _Balthazar_-!

Unable to coherently transmit words in any language, Castiel thought very deliberately about the scene of carnage before him: the strewn tables, dead patrons, the gash that had somehow gotten across Dean's brow.

"There will be no more of that," Behemoth sneered, lifting his foot and very deliberately grinding the heel of his boot into Castiel's slack palm.

"Keep your thoughts to yourself, angel."

"Please," Castiel said, hating that he was reduced to begging, but knowing he would do much more than beg to ensure Dean's safety. Was already planning on doing more. If Sam and Balthazar had received his last message, they would have been here by now; it was up to him to get the hunters out alive. "Let them go. _All_ of them," he stressed. "Do that, and I will go with you."

Behemoth chuckled; Castiel was really starting to hate that laugh. "You'll come with me anyways," he said. "What sort of incentive is that?"

"No, no, no," Dean whispered and moved toward the angel. "No, you can't die and leave me again."

Castiel looked up at Dean, saw the naked fear on the man's face, the way his lower lip trembled, and mouthed his name. Their eyes met and held. Dean's pleaded with him, but Castiel didn't withdraw his words or say he was sorry, because he wasn't. If sacrificing himself kept Dean safe, he'd never be sorry for it.

There was a loud boom behind them as the bar's door blew inward, right off the hinges. It landed with a clap. Balthazar strode into the room, furiously spinning a prayer wheel. Sam Winchester strode in behind him, a short, slender staff in his hand.

Balthazar struck a pose, which was quite the feat while spinning a prayer wheel. Grousing, he said, "All right, we know this is all bollocks, you've flexed your ginormous muscles and made us swoon. Can we just walk away from this now, a little sorer and wiser? I know I'd like to keep my jacket clean."

Behemoth paid him no mind and instead stared at Sam. "Samael?" he asked. He gave one long, slow blink, then turned back to Castiel. "Agreed," he said. The beast grabbed Castiel by the shoulder and then the floor was buckling underneath him as he was swallowed by the earth.

**o - o - o - o**

The sound of the earth splitting was nearly supersonic. The concussive force knocked everyone down, half-conscious and groaning. Castiel had vanished. Dean's gut clenched in shame and horror as he forced himself back to conciousness, the full impact of his short-lived bromance with good ol' Clay sinking. Because of his fear and anger, Castiel had been at a monster's mercy, and had been wisked away to face his murderous asshole brother without any sort of backup whatsoever.

Clay wiped his hands off on his jeans, and turned toward the remaining angel. Balthazar was on his knees and gasping but awake; he looked terrified.

"Look, I know what Raphael really wants, and I know where it is. I'll get it for him, if he lets Castiel go." He babbled desperately, his hand clutching at his chest as if in genuine pain. Dean felt a ripple of surprise at Balthazar's display; he hadn't been certain how the other angel really felt about Castiel, but it seemed there was genuine concern there. "Tell Raphael, please. He can have it. Just… don't hurt Castiel."

Clay pondered this for a long moment. "Sure. I can take it to him and give him your message."

There was no promise in that statement, and Dean knew it. But what else could they do? Whatever it was that Raphael wanted couldn't be good, but he wasn't going to stop Balthazar when there was a chance they could save his friend. Castiel would certainly die if they didn't do something, whereas he might live a little longer if the archangel was mollified. Castiel living was the only choice.

Of course there was the possibility that giving Raphael what he wanted would end in Armageddon for real this time, but as long as Castiel was alive there was hope.

Balthazar glared at him, and the angel didn't have to say a word for Dean to know what he was thinking. Castiel had sacrificed himself _again_ for the hunter. He could almost hear Balthazar say, _When will you get the magnitude of the situation, you damn hairless ape? Bloody never_. What he did say was, "I should smite you right now. I would, if I thought Cassie would ever forgive me for it."

Clay stood waiting, mostly patient. Balthazar turned away and sighed. "Look," he said to the Behemoth, "I can't get it while your power is hindering me. I'll have to walk down the street before I can wing myself away, just so you know why I'm leaving. Okay?"

The monster nodded, crossing his arms and leaning against a bar counter than looked like it had just barely survived an earthquake. Dean watched Balthazar sigh again and turn on his heel.

"You are all so very foolish," Clay said conversationally. "The things you do out of sentiment and emotion astound me."

Beside him, Sam groaned, and Dean looked over. Sammy would be fine, he told himself. He had to be; nothing else was an option. Bobby was still slack further on, and Dean looked away. He couldn't think of Bobby possibly being seriously hurt. Not right now.

Less than a minute later, Balthazar returned with a large long sack, which Clay took before he clapped his enormous meathook hands together and vanished into the same hole that had swallowed Cas.

Dean stood, reaching over to the other hunters to help them, but now that Balthazar had his full strength back... "Help these guys out, will ya?" Balthazar rolled his eyes but nodded, tapping each in turn (even Dean), healing them of any wounds and speeding their general recovery.

"Fine, we're all in one piece, I see. Now, if I'm not longer needed I'll be off to catch up with my fellow angels who don't want the earth to be destroyed, see if we can possibly find Raphael's hideout before he blows his Trumpet and kills us all, shall I?"

Dean gaped at the angel, and shouted, "What the hell did you do?"

Balthazar glowered. "I have given Castiel a fighting chance at not being ripped into shreds, that's what I did, you monkey. Try digging in that thick skull and see if a brain cell that isn't swimming in alcohol can be found, and tell it to get a goddamn clue. Goodbye." The angel winged away with a flutter than literally sounded pissed off.

Dean whipped his head around, as if desperate to find Castiel only buried in the rubble and not actually gone. Sam was at his side, gripping his shoulders, and shaking him until he met Sam's eyes.

"Dean, okay, it's bad. Balthazar may have bought us some time, but I really don't believe it's going to hold, so—"

"No shit?" Dean snapped, batting Sam's hands away and stumbled out of the decimated building, past Bobby and Vern who'd already escaped into the parking lot. He stopped to the Impala, flung open the trunk and started digging way in the back. A box, a very familiar box, was in his hand when he slammed the trunk shut and strode for the driver's door.

"No way in hell, Dean!" Sam yelled, running toward his brother. "No demons! No deals!"

Dean's eyes nearly seared Sam's flesh when he stared at him. "Shut the fuck up, and either help me find a crossroads or get the hell out of my way."


	6. Chapter 6

Rating, warning and summary can be found at Chapter 1.

**NOTE: This chapter has mature content and somewhat graphic violence.**_  
><em>

* * *

><p>"You have got to be fucking <em>kidding<em> me!"

"Would I kid you about something like this?"

Dean was barreling as fast as he dared down pothole filled dirt roads. It was edging towards dawn, which meant it'd been at least an hour since the Behemoth had taken Castiel and the Horn of Judgment. An half hour during which Castiel was subjected to the whims of his megalomaniacal sister, a half hour where the archangel held one of the few keys to releasing Lucifer from his cage. They'd left Bobby behind with Vern, hoping that he'd be able to extract useful information out of his 'friend' about 'Clay', but Dean wasn't holding his breath for a miracle on that front. He'd fooled Dean, which was not easy to do; he doubted Vern had even known what he'd befriended.

And while Bobby was busy with that, he and Sam had been searching for a crossroads, but it seemed the town of Enoch _didn't have one_. Not a single crossroads in the whole goddamn place that wasn't right smack in the middle of suburbia and therefore worse than useless.

So they'd driven a good ten miles out of town, through unbelievable amounts of twisting roads that went everywhere but directly across another fucking road. Finally they'd headed west into the desert scrub.

Sam had turned on his GPS and found a grid of roads, what looked like it had been meant as a housing development before the market collapsed and it was abandoned. The roads were still unpaved, so it was a safe bet no one would see them do their deal.

"Here! Right ahead, about a quarter mile." Sam said, and actually pointed out the windshield, as if that would help Dean with his sense of direction.

"Fucking _finally_!"

Dean jerked his baby's wheel hard. She skittered off the side of the road, and he'd thrown her into park and was climbing out before the engine's rumble completely cut off. Sam scrambled out of his seat behind him.

"You got that shovel?"

"Yeah, Dean, I've got it." Sam planted the tip into the dirt at the center of the crossroads. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

Dean stared, nerves jangling. "What do you mean am I sure? This is Cas, Sammy! Of course I'm sure!"

"You just... we don't know what the demon will ask for. What we'll have to barter."

"Whatever it is, it's worth it."

"Dean-"

"I said it's worth it, Sam. Whatever I have to do. So if you're not going to dig that hole, give me the damn shovel, and I'll do it."

Jaw clenching, Sam gave an apprehensive glance at his distressed brother. "Fine." He set his foot on top of the spade's brace and dug in.

**o - o - o - o**

"Well, well. Sam and Dean Winchester," came the unwelcomingly familiar feminine voice, "to what do I owe this nearly orgasmic pleasure?"

"Meg?" Sam coughed. "Oh my God."

Dean stepped toward her, snarling, mouth grim. "Just shut up. We're here to make a deal."

Meg snorted. "Figured that much out, cupcake. You _did _plant a box at a crossroads. Wasn't expecting a party where we braid each other's hair and have sweaty pillow fights. Fun as that would be." She tipped her hips at a saucy angle. "When I heard you were ringing, I just had to pop up and see for myself what it is you want so _very_ badly."

"Really? Queen of the Crossroads making time for little ole us? You shouldn't have," Sam needled her, but Meg just grinned, smug.

"Oh, so you know about my new job, do you? Someone's been tattling. I wonder who." She licked her lips. "And just where is our naughty Clarence?"

"That's why we're here, to rescue him. Raphael has him, and you're gonna get him back for us."

"I am, am I?" Meg frowned as she sauntered closer, then ran a dark-tipped nail down Dean's chest. "So pushy. Nothing happens without mutual consent. Though I do like it a little rough—"

In a flurry of motion, Dean had her spun around, back pressed to his chest, the demon-killing knife held under her throat. "Call it a hunch, but I'm betting you'll consent."

"Dean, honey," she purred, "you're pretty but you're an idiot." She reached out a hand in front of herself and twisted it into a fist, and Dean released the knife with a gasp. Meg stepped away, laughing merrily.

"I'll give you anything you want," Dean gasped, and Meg paused, staring down at the hunter. "My soul? It's yours."

Her face went cheerfully blank, what passed for a professional mask slipping over her features. "Not nearly enough. You're asking me to snatch an angel, sweetums. From the grip of an archangel? Baby, I'm good, but that trick's a little harder than rolling over and playing fetch. I need a bigger bone, and your dirty little soul's not gonna do."

"Meg, that's not all we need," Sam interrupted.

Turning her dark eyes toward him, she teased, "Sammy, looking good. There's something different about you."

Sam reached in front of himself, made a fist and twisted it, just as Meg had moments before. She fell to her knees with a pained gasp and released the hold she'd placed on Dean. He sucked in a lungful of air, trying to speak, but Sam forged onward, ignoring Meg's wheezing and Dean's gaping-fish impression. "There's an item we need you to retrieve, too. Raphael has the Horn of Judgment."

At that, Meg twitched and her face went slack. "Oh," she gasped. "Hell." Absently Sam released the psychic hold he'd placed on her, and Meg exhaled in deep bursts as she glared at him. "That changes things."

"Yeah, kinda thought it might," Sam said darkly.

"What the hell, Sam?" Dean coughed as he regained his feet.

Meg made an amusing cooing sound at him, as one does a small child, then turned her focus back to Sam as she struggled to her feet. "News down in the Pit is that Luci misses you, Sammykins."

"Stop with the pre-show and just tell me your price," Sam demanded, interrupting her to prevent any further secrets from spilling in front of Dean. "Cas is in trouble, right now."

"Can't, sugar," Meg heaved an annoyed sigh. "Something this big and juicy, I have to go through the boss. This is a deal of a lifetime, and he'll want to clear it himself. Control freak."

"Then what the hell are you still doing here?" Dean barked, struggling to his feet and glaring acidly at her. "Go ask!"

"Hmm, so bossy. It's kinda charming, in a brutish way," Meg snorted. "I totally get what Clarence sees in you."

"Just go, please, Meg?" Sam cajoled in frustration.

Meg grinned at him with better humor. "Only because you asked so nicely, Sam-I-Am." A wisp of sulfur and she was gone.

Dean leaned against the Impala, breathing like a racehorse. "Oh God, Sam." The shock was finally setting in, Sam could see it. "Oh, my God, what's gonna happen to him? Cas, I—"

Sam was moving toward him, to comfort in whatever way he could think of, when Meg popped back into the road.

"Mmm, Sammy, the way you're looking at Dean could give a girl ideas," she said.

"What'd Crowley say?" Dean asked, pushing off the Impala and striding towards the demon. "You going, or are we gonna have to appeal to another power?"

"Please," Meg rolled her eyes. "If you'd had any other options, you would've used them. But, lucky for you, boss man was willing to deal. No groveling required. I think he has a soft spot for your angel."

"The terms, Meg," Sam said.

"Fine." Her lips pressed into a thin line, clearly displeased that he was spoiling her fun. "In exchange for fetching our charmingly smutty little angel and the Horn, I'm going to require something from both of you. Technically, it will be treated as if we're brokering two deals. One for each request. Got it?"

When they both reluctantly nodded, she grinned. "Aww, I like this. You guys are always so nice when I have something you want." Neither had to say anything—Dean narrowed his eyes and Sam's posture shifted—but she must have sensed their patience was gone, because she tutted under her breath and continued.

"First—Deano. I bring your boyfriend back, the Pit gets your soul."

The hunter flinched, but nodded. It wasn't unexpected.

"Don't get so excited, sweetheart: there's more. Crowley says Castiel has access to something he wants. Convince him to share. You don't, and Crowley'll gift-wrap your angel and leave him as a parcel on Raphael's doorstep."

Dean hesitated. "I can't make Cas do anything he doesn't want."

Meg snorted, "Please. He'd dance naked down Hollywood Boulevard if he thought it'd benefit you, Dean. I'm sure you'll find a way to persuade him." She sighed. "But Crowley said you might say something to that effect, so I'll sweeten the pot. Stop Heaven's civil within 10 days, you get to keep your soul, and Crowley will re-negotiate for what he wants from Cas directly." The demon wrinkled his nose and shrugged her shoulders, a playful smirk dancing on the edge of her mouth. "Isn't that special?"

"Done," Dean said without blinking.

"Mmm, so decisive. C'mere," she beckoned, pursing her lips exaggeratedly. "Gimme some sugar."

"Not so fast," Sam said, holding an arm out to hold Dean back.

"Dude, what the hell?" Dean sputtered at his brother.

"The rest of the terms first, Meg." Sam didn't remove his eyes from the demon to glance at Dean, didn't even lower his arm.

A flash of red flicked over her eyes, but was gone just as quickly as it appeared. "Separate deals, Sammy, remember?"

Sam shook his head. "We're a package deal and you know it, Meg. So stop the bullshit."

Her jaw ticked as she spoke. "The rest, then. I deliver the Horn to you, Sam, and you go back into the cage with Lucifer."

Taken aback, Dean said, "What? Why?" He'd expected a demand for Sam's soul, maybe, which would have been bad enough, but this? Wasn't going to happen.

Meg shrugged. "Like I said, Lucifer misses Sam. I think Crowley's just looking for a way to pacify the old man, to be honest."

"No. You get the first part, not the second," Dean said.

"Not your decision to make, Dean," Meg sing-songed. "Whattaya say, Sam?"

"It's not happening," Dean insisted. "We'll find another way, Sam."

Finally his brother turned to look at him. "So it's okay for you to sell your soul for one person but I can't barter with mine to save the world and all of heaven?"

Put that way, Dean supposed it sounded ridiculous, but he didn't care."That's right," he said. "Exactly."

Meg and Sam snorted at the same time, and then shared a look of long-suffering. To Dean it looked too much like they were friggin' bonding over something (something unflattering towards him) and he resisted, barely, the urge to cuff his brother upside the head.

"How about we make the stakes more interesting," Sam said, causing Dean to yelp, "More interesting?" but Meg to tilt her head to the side. She seemed intrigued.

"More interesting how?"

"Dean, Cas and I win the war in five days, we all walk away. Dean keeps his soul, I stay out of the cage, and if Crowley still wants something from Cas, he tries to broker a deal with him the old-fashioned way. And hurry up."

All the protests Dean had died on his tongue as he blinked, amazed, at Sammy. It was a ballsy counter-offer that sounded too good to be true. The last time he'd stopped the end of the world all he'd had was a day, his car, and a mix-tape. Five whole days plus his whole family on his side and a promise of possible semi-normally at the end? There's no way they'd fail.

Meg still had to agree first, though, and Dean didn't see her doing that. There was nothing in it for her.

She bit her lower lip in feigned indecision, but her eyes told a different story. She insinuated herself against Sam, stood on her tiptoes, and kissed him. Holy shit, she was really-

"Done." Squealing girlishly, she said, "I should really be pissed at you boys, but I have to say, I'm kinda impressed. I mean, most people-"

She was cut off as Dean pushed Sam away and, being just as brutish as she'd claimed earlier, grasped Meg's head and forced a kiss, quick and brutal. The demon stumbled away when he released her, the back of her hand going to her mouth, eyes wide.

"Go get him," Dean growled. "Now."

**o - o - o - o**

He had been so utterly blind and without senses while he traveled through the earth that Castiel was nearly certain he'd died again. But no, he became aware again as he suddenly found himself lying on the ground, coughing and gasping in pain from his beating. He was in a desert, still on the physical plane, possibly not far from where he'd been taken.

Perhaps twenty feet away sat Raphael, on a grand chair in the middle of nowhere, an ice-cold Cleopatra in a smart suit. Even in the darkness of pre-dawn, it seemed she sat in a spotlight.

_Such arrogance_, Castiel mused, rolling over with a groan, _perhaps even more than my own. How does she not fall because of it? _Not for the first time, he wondered about the justice in his Father's world.

For that matter, why were they still on earth? Were Behemoth's powers grounding the archangel as well? No… she was humming with power. Castiel sensed more than one grace attached to Raphael. _Oh Father, help us._ Her claim that her followers' hearts were hers… It was true.

Castiel stared at her in true horror. He'd been a soul junkie, eating monsters and had planned to take any he encountered after opening Purgatory. But he had never taken a human soul. And he'd never have dreamed of stealing from his own family. Regrettably, he'd killed them, but their grace died with them, did not go to feed his own.

Raphael was a cannibal.

Daring to whisper aloud, Castiel asked, "Sister, what has happened to you, to turn you into something so dark? You were once the Healer of Heaven, why are you now a butcher?"

Moving her gaze from the distance to Castiel's face, she said, "The only change in my method of healing is to cut away the disease and cauterize the wound. I believe I told you once that medicine does not always taste good. And this earth is a disease, Castiel." She looked past him again. "Besides, what you think is immaterial. My followers gave their grace to me willingly. They understand the meaning of obedience."

Castiel rose shakily to his feet and would have responded, but at that moment the Behemoth appeared beside Raphael, handing her a large bag and muttering into her ear. The archangel listened closely, gave the nearest thing to a smile she could make, and nodded toward Castiel.

The monster came and dragged Castiel stumbling forward, then pushed him to his knees at Raphael's feet. He faced the archangel, steadfast yet resigned. Dark eyes fell upon his face without truly meeting his gaze, as if acknowledging his existence was hardly worth the effort.

"Castiel, you genuinely are more trouble than you're worth sometimes. If not for a certain desire of my own, you'd have been evaporated ages ago. I've had several chances."

The words stung as deja vu swarmed Castiel. He'd thought something similar about Dean, not a half-hour past. Further proof that he was more like Raphael than he'd readily admit, even to himself.

He muttered, "I may have been imagining things, but I seem to recall you've already blown me up once before. Raphael, if your only wish if for my obedience and subservience, you know you will not have it. Why draw this out?"

Raphael's mouth pulled in slight annoyance. "Sadly, that is not all that I wish. You alone have the key to something I desire."

Castiel scoffed. "You will not have the Horn of Judgment, Raphael."

Raphael's lips twitched in the nearest thing to a smile she could give. "But I already have it." She indicated the bag in her lap. With a tug, it opened and revealed the Horn.

With a horrified gasp, Castiel stared at the instrument. "How…," he whispered, then looked back at the archangel. "No, please. You honestly don't know what you're doing if you bring on the apocalypse. It's wrong, Raphael, it's not what Father would want, and deep down you have to know that." He knew he was pleading shamelessly but nothing was left to him now.

Raphael gave a small chuckle. "Oh, Castiel, it is amusing how you believe Father's wishes are to let this earth continue its miserable existence. Humans suffer endlessly, it would be a blessing to end it all. You kneel here now, feeling how easily humans break, desiring nothing more than release from that pain. These pathetic sacks of skin and bone. If not for the need to inhabit a vessel to walk this wretched planet, I wouldn't touch the inside of this walking corpse." She flicked the wrist of the body wrapped around her grace. "That will mercifully change when humans are gone. I have no use for the planet anyway."

"Then why destroy it, if you don't want it?" Castiel shook his head in frustrated confusion. "Leave it to the humans, just go back to Heaven and ignore them!"

Raphael's eyes grew hard. "They are everywhere in heaven, too. There is no place an angel may rest that is not tainted by the stench of their presence. If I were able I would happily seek ways to blot them from the very fabric of reality. What I can do is make sure no more can be born to populate this plane of existence. They must cease here, in order to cease there."

Castiel's teeth ground together. "Humans don't bother us in Heaven, why do they matter to you? Without their heavens to tread, where would we go? I don't understand you. Humans are what enrich and _power_ heaven! There's no logic in what you're saying, Raphael!"

Raphael waved her hand again, and Castiel's felt every one of his wounds scream in agony, bones that were already broken seemed to snap into even smaller pieces, blood that pooled inside his body began to spill from his mouth. He coughed, ragged and wet, and collapsed forward onto his hands. He would have cried out for it to stop but didn't want to give Raphael the satisfaction. He couldn't even hope for swift death. That was not the archangel's style.

"You will not make assumptions about my motives," Raphael said sternly as she released him to whimper weakly. "You will merely listen to my words."

Castiel spit blood on the ground and refused to raise his eyes.

Raphael went on, "I am inclined to spare your pet humans, even to allow them space in Heaven without interference, if you give me what I want."

"What could I possibly give you?" Castiel rasped as he swallowed, completely lost.

"The keys to the kingdom, as it were. The final circle of Heaven."

Castiel froze. He knew of the circles, that Heaven reached into dimensions he'd never visited. He was too low on the chain to be allowed beyond the third, where angels stationed themselves when not on earth. He'd been there twice in all his existence. Anna had been commander of that realm for a long time. Raphael and Zachariah had shared control of the second circle. Gabriel, until he'd vanished, had been in charge of the first, the one closest to earth. Perhaps that was what made him desire this realm more than heaven itself.

But how Raphael expected him, of all angels, the mere Angel of Thursday – which even Castiel had never fully understood – to access the seventh heaven? It was so ludicrous he very nearly laughed in the archangel's face.

Raphael seemed to sense this, and motioned to Behemoth, who clamped a hand on Castiel's shoulder. The angel moaned with pain as the crushing paw pushed him downward, and he felt the ground literally begin to swallow him. He cried out then, in fear as much as pain. The stone of the earth closed around his legs and hands in a vice-like grip. Raphael would torture him again, and Castiel would break. But he would suffer endlessly this time because what Raphael wanted was impossible to give.

"Now, Castiel, it's time you receive revelation of a different sort," Raphael declared smoothly.

Castiel felt tears begin in his eyes as he tried desperately to brace himself.

"There is a secret that has been kept from you for a very long time." Settling back into her throne, Raphael steepled her fingers, playing the benevolent ruler bestowing wisdom upon her subject. "When you were made, you were among the very last of us. Father turned you over to the care of your elders, as He did with all younger angels. We existed like this for eons, and the system worked well enough. He oversaw things, let us know He was proud of our work. Then… He left. But He before he did He gave instructions for your care, very specific ones. You were to be trained by the archangels, to be readied for a higher position. Higher," Raphael growled, "than _all_ of us."

Castiel's heart very nearly stopped beating, and his eyes darted around in confusion. Nothing Raphael said made any sense. He began to wonder if his sister had discovered the unique torture of constant psychological bafflement.

"You see, Father had created the seventh circle for Himself on the seventh day so that He could rest. His throne is there, unfilled at the moment due to his decision to abdicate. But His intention was that you, Castiel, _you_, the youngest of angels, be raised so high as to take His place until He returned."

Castiel's mind collapsed under the weight of those words. They must be in some language that he didn't actually know, yet sounded like English. Perhaps if he transliterated the sounds into Enochian, they might become sensible. But no, it was gibberish. His mind was gibbering as well.

_What the hell was Raphael saying?_ Castiel knew that his mind was reaching permanent derangement.

"Yes, it is hard to believe, I know," Raphael said, falsely sympathetic. "But you were meant to be an archangel when you were grown. Destined, in fact, to be placed ahead of all the Host. And the greatest of all ironies is...despite our best efforts, you _still_ ascended to that position of honor."

Castiel felt his vessel sway forward as much as it was able while trapped in the earth. Raphael snarled, "You became an archangel and never noticed. One look upon our Father's face gave that to you, yet you didn't even feel it, did you? So nearly fallen at the time that you couldn't see Him even while standing in His kitchen awaiting my strike. His hand on your shoulder, looking so very proud of you…"

And Castiel's mind suddenly snapped into control again. For one second, he was still and his heart at perfect peace, as this information sprouted like a hidden seed in the deepest part of his grace. Then his head lifted slowly, and he regarded Raphael with such calm that the (_other_, he thought, _and lesser_) archangel was momentarily stunned. His eyes settled into an almost gentle expression, and he said, "Then clearly my mission has always been the righteous one, what I was destined to do. Father left me this precious thing to guard. And I have followed a perfect path all along, everything I've done for the greater good… it has been greater than I knew." His grace sang with joy, and the light of it hummed along his skin. Even Behemoth couldn't press it down so tightly to prevent the sensation.

Raphael scowled, growing furious. "You may know what you are now, and you may believe in your insane cause, but you still cannot succeed. I have the Heavenly Host at my command, inside and out, and tens times what you have. You know I will not stop, nor can you hope to win in a direct fight."

Castiel nodded, his concern still present but less immediate. God did not bestow tasks upon those he felt incapable of completing them. It would likely be difficult, and bloody, but for the first time in months he felt that there was a real chance he could win the war.

"Then you know it's pointless to even think you could control the seventh Heaven. But, if I have that for myself, then I am inclined to allow this earth to survive."

Castiel scoffed lightly, licking blood from his lips. "Of course you would. Until you grew tired of the human population growth in Heaven and decided leveling the earth would be the best idea after all."

Raphael's scowl turned to a smirk. "Unnecessary. True, humans souls still bound for Heaven when I take the Throne will reach us safely. Hell can deal with its own, as always. And I will abide by my promise to leave them be. There won't be any more of them coming along afterward."

Castiel froze, suddenly less confident. "What do you mean?"

"Why, the souls stored under the Throne, of course. All the souls not yet born. They will be useless so I will simply abort them."

His grace retreated into his body again. "Souls… there are souls… I was meant to protect human souls as well as Father's seat…," he whispered so softly even he barely heard it.

"Yes, well, that's all moot." Raphael gave a single barking laugh. "You have no choice in this matter, Castiel, and you will die again and again until you realize this." She waved her hand once more.

The Behemoth, looking genuinely bored now, stepped forward and grasped Castiel's hair in a giant fist. He lifted almost gently and shook the angel's head, as if to get his attention or considering what action to take. Castiel whined, ready to have his neck snapped or torn in half. But the Behemoth released his hair and moved to wrap both hands around his waist. And he yanked upward, hard, pulling the angel from the stone in one hard pull.

Castiel wailed in agony as flesh tore from both legs and hands, and he was tossed onto his side. His nerves screamed as the blood pounded through his veins and soaked the ground beneath him. He lay there panting for breath, his mind buzzing with shock, and randomly noticing that the sun was now up and illuminating Raphael from behind like a classical angel's halo. He felt an hysterical giggle rising in his throat as he choked on fresh blood.

"Make it easy on yourself, brother," Raphael sighed, attempting to sound reasonable. "I have the Horn. I am one breath away from destroying your precious earth and your beloved pets. Give me what I want and I will put the Horn into the armory again, lock it away and not give it another thought."

Castiel heaved great sobs, face against hard earth, wishing he was buried in it once more, perhaps forever. He could not win any direction he went.

But Dean… Dean would have said _Go down fighting and take as many of the bastards as you can down with you_. Even in his anguish, Dean's words gave Castiel the strength to make his decision.

Then, incredibly, he heard in his mind Sam Winchester's voice, _Cas, we're getting you, we've got a way, just hang on._

Castiel held his breath, then responded weakly, _Raphael has the Horn_.

Sam's voice was strong and confident, _No he doesn't._

And in the next breath, Castiel was falling helplessly into Dean's arms in the middle of a dusty crossroad. Sam had the Horn in his hands now, and Castiel smiled as he fainted.

**o - o - o - o**

Dean howled in horror at Castiel's wounds, shouting for Meg to finish her spell. She grumbled and healed the angel, but didn't bother to clear the blood that covered them both. She then snapped her fingers disdainfully and a hex bag fell into her palm. This she threw to Dean and said, "To cloak Castiel from the other angels," in explanation.

"We didn't negotiate for this," Sam said, staring down at the bag in Dean's hands.

"Nope. But what good would Clarence be to the boss if he got himself snatched right back up by big sister? Crowley protects his investments."

She took two big steps back.

"Well, boys, if that's all you need, I'll be off. I feel so used. My first really big deal and I wind up rode hard and put away _dry._ It's just not fair."

"Shut up," Sam barked, "And tell your damned boss to fuck himself."

"Yeah, he probably will, just in celebration. I plan to _not_ be in the room when he does." Meg shuddered, grinned sourly at them, and vanished.

Dean cradled Castiel's limp form, rocking and begging wordlessly for the angel to be all right. Sam shook his shoulders, speaking urgently, "Dean, c'mon, he's alive. But we have to get him to the motel now before anyone sees us." Dean allowed Sam to forcibly hauled them up and throw Cas over his shoulder while steering Dean to the Impala, were he deposited them in the back seat. The drive was tense, filled with Dean's muttered prayers for a long time, until he finally addressed him.

"Sammy," Dean said, not looking up as he threaded his fingers through Cas' hair. The warmth of Cas' scalp was reassuring to the touch. "What did you do to Meg at the crossroads?"

"I don't know—"

"Don't bullshit me, Sam. Too much of that has gone down between all of us. Whatever it is, just tell me, and we'll deal with it." Hesitating, he said, "Does it have anything to do with your wall?"

Dean had the grim satisfaction of seeing Sam jerk, his hands flex upon the wheel. He recovered swiftly, but Dean had his tell. He hadn't wanted to be right.

"I don't think we should do this right now." Dean went to protest, but Sam cut him off. "Dean, I swear to you that I'll tell you what's going on. I just think-"

Keeping his voice low and steady, Dean said, "Freaky psychic shit, Meg's comments, showing up at just the perfect moment in the bar.. I assumed you summoned Balthazar, but that doesn't answer the question of how you knew we needed you right at that moment...it's almost like you were talking to Cas while he was in the bar. But that's ridiculous." In the suddenly thick silence, he swallowed hard and said, "Right, Sammy? Cas was just supposed to get us, wasn't he? Not have all this happen. And Meg..." As the pieces fell together into a pattern that Dean could see but didn't want to believe, he said, "Please, Sammy, just tell me this is the demon psychic junk again and not something else."

The car slowed and Sam flicked the turning signal as he eased the Impala into the motel parking lot. He didn't speak until they were parked directly in front of their door; the silence had already given Dean his answer, if he'd chosen to accept it. But he clung to the hope that he was wrong, that the strain of all the emotional upheavals the past several days made him connect things that weren't there.

"I can't." Sam's voice, though low and soft, carried through the darkness. "The wall fell, Dean."

Dean sat, stunned, his fingers clenching into Castiel's hair, until Sammy came around to help pull the angel out of the backseat. He didn't say anything as they carefully walked him into the room, nor when Sam cautiously suggested that they get Cas cleaned up and check for injuries, just in case.

Dean had never fussed over Castiel much. Whenever he'd been hurt, Dean had taken him to safety and sometimes laid him on a bed to rest, but that had been the extent of care. Castiel had always been able to heal himself, and Dean wasn't one to wait on someone hand and foot (except Sam when they were young, and only when the kid had been very, very ill).

But now the situation was dire and far more personally involved. Dean allowed Sam to help him with the first part – stripping and washing an unconscious Castiel-just to get it done quickly and efficiently. After they put Cas into a pair of sweats and one of Dean's old t-shirts and lowered him onto the bed, Dean finally spoke.

"Would you have ever told me? On your own, without me grasping for answers in the dark?"

Sam looked at Dean through his lashes. "I wanted to. Just wasn't sure how. It wasn't exactly something I could just dump on you."

"What are you?" Dean asked, in that same dejected, tired, old voice.

"I was an archangel."

Green eyes slid shut at the admission, and a single tear rolled down Dean's cheek.

"So you aren't my brother," he croaked, sinking down onto the mattress beside Castiel.

"Dean, no." Sam rounded the corner and stepped in front of Dean, crouching down so they were face to face. "I _am_ your brother. I fell. Just like Anna. I made a decision and was born human, with a soul and no memory of who I was." Placing a hand on Dean's shoulder, he continued, "It's why Azazel wanted me. Why Lucifer wanted me. They somehow knew I was going to fall before I'd even decided to, knew I was going to end up with mom and dad and you."

Dean was quite for a long, tense moment. Then he said, "You're still you. You haven't..."

"No. I'm not an angel, not anymore. I never will be again unless I go looking for my grace." He squeezed his shoulder. "And I don't plan to."

"What was your name? Before, I mean?"

"Samael."

Dean reached over to Cas, pulled one of his hands into his grasp and to run his thumb across the knuckles on the back of the fine-boned hand. Sam watched the action with a peculiar look on his face.

"So you're still my brother?" Dean asked, hopeful but with a tinge of fear. "You're still Sammy?"

"I'm still your brother," Sam said, fighting the urge to reach out and hug Dean. "Only difference is now I remember I'm Cas', too."

Dean released Cas' hand as if it'd grown red-hot, a flush high on his cheeks. Sam laughed at the reaction. "Cute. Don't worry, Dean. I'm not going to ask what your intentions are or give you the hurt-my-brother speech. You already have my blessing." He looked over at the still angel. "Both of you. You guys deserve to be happy."

Sam stood and said, "I'm gonna-" and jerked his thumb towards the door, "get some sleep." He didn't say that he was going to give Dean time to process, or that he was allowing him to have the time alone with Cas that he obviously needed, but it was clear. Dean nodded.

"Thank you, Sam."

"What for?"

"For telling me." Dean swallowed. "Don't get me wrong, I still think this is fucked up and I still intend to kick your ass for not telling me sooner, but...thanks for this. Now."

Sam smiled. "No problem, Dean." Giving into the impulse, he went over and gave him a hug. "We'll talk more in the morning."

"Now that's something to look forward to," Dean said dryly, but when Sam pulled away, he didn't feel as much tension as he'd expected. Sam had chosen the right thing to say to ease his immediate concerns.

Sam then left them with a wink, saying he knew how much Dean needed time alone with the angel.

**o - o - o - o**

Castiel slept most of the day, and when he slowly awoke, Dean was hovering over him, face pinched with worry.

The angel regarded him with mild surprise, then his lips twitched into a tiny smile. "I am very glad to see you, Dean."

Dean exhaled as though he'd been holding his breath for hours. "God, Cas, what the hell happened? No, no, wait, I don't want to know. I'm just happy you're here." He smiled stiffly but sincerely, and squeezed Castiel's fingers.

This was also a surprise; in Castiel's experience, Dean would rage, yell and swear when he was worried or angry, unless he thought it was extremely serious. He must think the angel was worse off than he felt. "Dean, I'm fine at the moment. There's much to do, I should—"

Dean stalled his effort to sit up. "No way, man. We've got a little time, and we're using it to recoup. Period, no arguments."

With a quirk of his mouth that should have been a smile but still managed to seem pained, Castiel lay back down. Even that small movement was tiring; perhaps Dean was right to be concerned. "Very well. Should we discuss strategy?"

Shaking his head, Dean said, "Nope, full vacation for at least twenty-four hours. Get used to it."

Castiel regarded the hunter and saw that he was trying to school his face into light-heartedness, but the creases under his eyes and tight jaw gave away the lie. With a rush of warmth, Castiel understood now what he meant to Dean. The man had cared enough to call up a crossroads demon – Meg, he hazily remembered – and bargain who-knew-what for Castiel's sake. He also knew that Dean was very unlikely to discuss the terms of the deal during this 'vacation' so the angel set aside his plans to question him about it.

They sat on the bed for a time, mostly staring at each other. Castiel could hear Dean's heart pounding as if it were attempting to jump out his throat. Agitated and seemingly desperate for distraction, the man reached for the TV remote, "So, let's see if..." Castiel touched his hand.

"Dean," came the smoky voice that had begun to give Dean riotously impure thoughts the last week, "I would rather sit in your presence silently, if we can. I… missed you."

His heart nearly stopped for a second, then Dean nodded and sat next to the reclining angel. Things were about to get intense and deeply personal, he knew, and he had residual discomfort with the thought of touching certain areas in more than a cursory way (which he'd had to do earlier when they'd washed Castiel). But this was Cas, and that really did make it entirely different. He'd admitted honestly to himself days ago that he was curious and, frankly, no one else made him feel anything like Cas did, so… it was a natural decision to make. Certain things would take some getting used to, but hey – a guy should know exactly how to please another guy, right? It would be pleasurable for them both. Damn it, he was over-thinking everything, _again_.

He reached out and laid his hand gently on Cas' chest, rubbing his fingers in circles over the angel's heart. Castiel looked pleasantly surprised at the gesture, and lifted his own hand to rest lightly on Dean's without stopping him. There it was, the Moment.

And then he had to spoil it.

"Uh, Cas, there's something I've been meaning to ask for a while. Is Jimmy… still in there with you?" Dean asked hesitantly.

Castiel's fingers stiffened on Dean's hand and the stroking paused. "No. He's been gone since Raphael first smote me at… at Chuck's home," Castiel's tone was strained and he closed his eyes. "I didn't know it at the time, but he was disintegrated and I… absorbed his soul. He was the first, and it was an accident. I regret that he will never reach Heaven, nor ever return to his family."

Dean swallowed hard. "I'm sorry. He was a good dude."

"Yes."

Secretly, on a selfish level, Dean was relieved Jimmy would not be present when he and Castiel took things further. That would _not_ have been cool at all.

Knowing it was possible the Moment had passed, (or rather that he destroyed it with his ill-timed question) Dean inhaled deeply. Then decided _what the hell?_ Moment or not, he was going for it.

He moved forward quickly and pressed his mouth against Castiel's. The angel breathed out in surprise as Dean inhaled that breath like it was life itself. Fingertips came up to cup that stubbled jaw and his thumb moved in gentle circles to coax Cas's mouth further open. When it did, he slid his tongue in and smoothed it against the angel's, soft and wet and so so very good. This was far easier and better than he'd expected. In fact, it was freaking wonderful. He found himself lifting up and settling halfway over Cas's body, one leg between his knees, their hips pressing together lightly. Dean deepened the kiss and heard the first moan from Cas' throat, answered it with his own. Castiel's hands gripped his waist, and Dean felt himself growing erect and eager.

Then he was thrust backward as Castiel scrambled away to sit against the headboard of the bed, eyes wide and clearly afraid. Dean sat open-mouthed for a second, then creased his forehead. "Cas, I'm not gonna hurt you."

"I know, but this… I can't," Castiel breathed harshly, shaking his head.

"But… I…," Dean huffed in frustration, then turned away. "All right. Okay. We don't have to go there." He wasn't sure if he was relieved, disappointed, or just plain hurt by the rejection.

"I'm sorry, Dean," Castiel tried, "we… angels are simply not made for this."

Incredulous, Dean turned back to him. "You're kidding. Cas, I felt a little something happening down there. I've seen evidence that angels aren't junkless." (Unfortunately proven by Gabriel's performance in Casa Erotica 13, and this _so_ was not the time for that memory.)

Cas frowned at him. "You're mistaking me for my vessel. Of course it will react to the proper stimulus. It did achieve erection when I watched the pizza man penetrating the baby sitter, after all." His frank words made Dean blush, causing the hunter to turn away again. Castiel took a deep breath. "This body still isn't me. I'm an angel, and we aren't meant for the procreative act—"

"Jesus, Cas, it's not like we're trying to make a baby here," Dean groused, grimacing at the angel's frustrated huff. He lowered his eyes, saying, "I'm not gonna push. I just would've liked to share this with you. Who knows if we'll ever have another chance after tomorrow—"

"I don't believe this," Castiel narrowed his eyes and pulled completely upright, crossing his arms. He looked very inch the affronted virgin protecting his virtue. "Dean, I'm not unaware of your 'last night on earth' speech. Not only is it traditional among human soldiers before a great battle, but Jo told me of your efforts to seduce her the evening before her passing."

The angel's eyes shuttered, whether from the memory of their lost friend or (Dean thought this more likely) from the idea that he was to be just another in a long line of 'last night' stands. "While it's a natural human instinct to bring both fleeting comfort and a chance to pass on genetic material to a potential next generation should they die the next day, it really has nothing to do with—"

Dean growled in amazement and flung himself off the bed. "God damn it, Cas! I'm not making some lame ass excuse just to fuck you! It's actually very likely we _are_ gonna die tomorrow, and this is the only damned way I know how to show you what I feel! I'm not good with words. I only know how to express myself physically, like..._this_." The hunter waved a hand between them, encompassing their close proximity. "I'm sorry that's not good enough for you, or proper, or...hell. I just don't know what else to do." He stopped ranting and raised his head, eyes to the ceiling as though begging for help.

Castiel was silent for several beats. Then he said, very softly, "Dean, I could offer an alternative to fucking me."

That word coming from the angel's mouth gave Dean an unexpected shiver. It was simultaneously shocking and really, _really_ arousing. He lowered his head and raised an eyebrow. "What did you have in mind?"

"Angels have a different manner of...sharing themselves. They commune with one another by intimately merging their separate graces. They embrace and… I suppose you'd say '_attune_' themselves. I don't have a better word." Castiel's eyes roamed from the ceiling to the floor and the window beyond, anywhere but Dean's face. " As I've said before, I never had occasion to try it myself, but the process is known to me. I think it could be done in a similar fashion with a human."

"Do tell?" Dean turned slowly and inched back toward the bed. Cas unwound his tense posture a bit.

"When I've reached into the human body to read their souls—"

Dean halted him swiftly. "Whoa. From what I've seen that's about as far from erotic as you can get. Unless you're seriously masochistic and into fisting." He shuddered violently, face twisted in horror.

Castiel sighed and turned back towards him, squinting. "Will you let me finish, Dean? It's not the same thing. When I do that, I insert my vessel's physical hand into the person's physical form. Painful, but the quickest method, and, as you say, not remotely erotic. What I'm suggesting not dissimilar, except...it is far more gradual, and doesn't involve my vessel. I can press my grace slowly into you, through every pore of your body, until it brushes your soul. Gently," his voice lowered, eyelids drooping half-open as he regarded Dean, "perhaps sensually."

Dean felt a shiver at the angel's deep tone, and with renewed interest approached the bed. "Should I sit back down for this?"

"Yes, that would be best," Castiel whispered.

The hunter sat, taking Cas's offered hand and scooting closer. The angel's eyes were steady on his own, more focused and intense than he'd ever seen. He felt a spiraling sensation, falling slowly into the blueness, as warmth seeped into his skin. Every inch of his body tingled and yet felt loosely pliant, as if it were being slowly stretched, including places he'd never allowed another to explore.

Cas brought his mouth within a breath of Dean's ear, and he smiled. "You may feel my grace pushing into areas that you consider very private. Tell me if you'd like to stop."

Dean breathed deeply and relaxed further, surprised at how pleasurable he was finding the sensations. He grinned. "No, _ah_, keep going…"

He was slowly, gently invaded. Absolutely everywhere, head to toe. When Castiel's grace brushed his soul, they both knew it instantly. There was a literal spark which jolted them, but was not painful. The light bulb on the bedside stand crackled and went out, enveloping them in darkness. Cas gasped and, unable to stop himself, Dean wrapped clinging arms around the angel. The embrace was returned as the energy played inside Dean's form, stroking and pulsing. His body stiffened and relaxed in turns, and he could feel his cock growing deliciously rigid. Dean groaned in want, turning his face toward Cas's, begging for the angel's mouth. Castiel obliged.

Dean's lips were soft but demanding, and Castiel let the hunter devour him. It was physical, yes, but it seamlessly blended with their coupling, which made it feel right, divine. Dean's body was all but vibrating against his own, seeking further connection but allowing him lead. In return he rippled his grace inside the hunter's body, an undulating motion that brought further gasps of need from them both. Everything was growing to a peak, and Cas was determined to give his human as much pleasure as possible. He pushed a little harder with his grace, caressing every molecule of energy in Dean's soul. It throbbed in time with Dean's heartbeat.

Shaking and groaning, Dean felt his whole being lift and crest, spill over the edge, and he was coming so hard he could hardly breathe. He was slicked with wet heat, yet his body felt it wanted to give more. His head spun helplessly as Cas gasped and twitched against him. The angel bit down on Dean's lips as his hips ground against him, once, hard and insistent. "Dean," Cas moaned, praise and warning all rolled into one. The man could feel Castiel's grace spasm blistering-hot through him as the tv set flicked on and white noise crashed through the room. The back of Castiel's eyes began to glow. Dean could see traces of his grace through the angel's parted lips. Somewhere outside the motel room door a car alarm began going off; it wasn't the Impala, so it didn't matter. Dean closed his eyes and reached for Cas, forcing their mouths together with bruising intensity. Through his shut lids Dean saw a flash of light. A burst of warmth tingled across his tongue. He smiled, satisfaction rolling through his body.

For a long moment they sat, pieced together like a puzzle, breathing each other in and out. Slowly, as slowly as he'd pushed in, Castiel slid his grace out of Dean's body, tugging tiny moans from the human. They both collapsed backward, at angles across the bed.

"Damn," Dean whispered, eyes unfocused at the ceiling. Silence fell. Then, "_damn_" again.

Castiel hummed a gentle laugh. "Not precisely, but I understand the sentiment."

Dean grinned and turned tiredly to see an angel looking utterly debauched against the pillows. "So," he said smugly, "not a virgin anymore. How do you feel?"

Cas pondered this. "Strangely, both exhausted and energized."

"That means you did it right." Grinning wider, Dean did his best to roll over and press closer. Head and shoulders mostly draped across the angel's knees, he toyed with Cas's fingertips where they lay limp on the sheets. "Pretty sure you had a little angelgasm of your own."

With a chuckle, Cas said, "I suppose you could call it that. Though I, ah, am also a bit sticky."

Laughing, eyes widened, Dean glanced toward Cas's lap, only inches from his face now. "Well, well. Looks like the vessel decided to join in after all."

Castiel's face flushed pink but he smiled. "As I said, it responds to the proper stimulus. Which is, apparently, you." He leaned forward, hovering over Dean for a moment, eyes warm and intense. "I love you, Dean," he whispered.

Dean sighed with contentment until his heart tightened at the edges. This was it. This was their one and only time, he just knew it.

That fear must have shown on his face, because Castiel placed his hand over that aching heart, and said, "My strength in battle will be twice as great as before. So that I may return to do this every night until you are tired of it."

Dean huffed, bittersweet. "Now _that's_ impossible."

* * *

><p><strong><em>Author's Notes:<em>**

_The concept of seven levels of heaven is pulled from Kabbalah Jewish mysticism. Under that system, certain angels govern certain levels of heaven. The leader of Seventh Heaven is the angel "Cassiel", who has the responsiblity of guarding-yup-God's throne and the well of souls that reside underneath it. More info can be found on the wikipage for "Heaven" or "Cassiel". (Would provide the links, but FF hates them. Apologies.)_


	7. Chapter 7

Rating, warnings and summary can be found at Chapter 1.

* * *

><p>It was almost morning when Dean awoke. He hadn't realized he'd fallen asleep, but he wasn't surprised. The previous night had been pretty intense on multiple levels. Remembering the good bits (the really incredibly awesomely good bits) had him grinning broadly before he even opened his eyes.<p>

The only reason he even bothered to open them was to see what Castiel was doing. The angel was beside him on the bed, propped on one elbow, slowly tracing whorls across his chest with a fingertip. He could feel a warmth flowing through that finger that was probably Castiel's grace. A tremor of excitement went through his body as he recalled how that grace felt deep inside him, swirling with his soul. It was the lightest of touches, but started to get him hard again.

Castiel didn't stop trailing his finger when Dean's eyes opened. He merely smiled. "Good morning, Dean. You slept well."

"Yeah, I did," the hunter yawned and stretched, but not enough to dislodge Castiel's hand. "Think you had something to do with that."

"You were understandably exhausted from our coupling. I undressed you to make you more comfortable," he said, nodding at Dean's bare chest.

Dean peeked under the covers to see he was clad only in his boxers. Castiel was still dressed as he was overnight, which was awesome—seeing the angel dressed in his old sweats was surprisingly hot. Though it would have been doubly awesome to have a naked angel next to him, he knew better than to ask. For now, Dean was honestly content to simply lie there and let Castiel pet him. Motes of dust drifted in the sunlight streaming past the angel's tousled head, almost creating a halo.

_When the hell did I start writing movies for the Hallmark Channel?_ Dean thought. The angel's grace had clearly melted his brain, but he couldn't bring himself to be disgusted with the direction his mind had wandered. Not yet, anyways. It really was kind of nice.

Castiel's fingers made a final swirl then stopped as he placed his palm flat over Dean's heart. "I apologize for waking you with my movements."

"This?" Dean looked down the hand. "Best way to get woken up, next to a blowjob." He winked at Castiel and his sudden blush. "But this is good, too."

For a moment, they were both silent, then Castiel's face grew more serious. "I've never spoken to you about the angelic language, have I?"

"Uh, no..." Dean raised his eyebrow, curious about this change in tone. "I mean I know a few words, but it's pretty weird and sounds like a bunch of gibberish being chanted by stoned Himalayan monks. No offense."

"None taken. English is a flat and often uninteresting-looking language filled with illogical exceptions to many of its own rules." He overlooked Dean's laugh. "And while Enochian embraces concepts in dimensions beyond human grasp, it is… lacking in areas where human languages are most gifted."

The look of sadness on Castiel's face made Dean frown. "Hey, what's this about?" He raised a hand to cup the angel's jaw.

"There is no word in Enochian for 'love', Dean. It's something we claim – when we speak in human languages – to feel for our Father, our brothers and sisters. And it is what we supposedly feel for mankind, if your clichés have anything to say about it." His lips twisted into a wry approximation of a soft smile. "What we really feel is ineffable, cannot be properly defined by human words. But I promise you, it's not really love. It's obedience and righteousness combined with a fierce desire to fulfill God's will, whatever that may be. Nothing like love at all."

Castiel's eyes nearly closed and he gazed downward. He hadn't actually met Dean's yet, which he could tell was beginning to worry the man. "Cas," Dean tilted the angel's face towards him, "what are you talking about, man? Is there something wrong? Something you trying to tell me, here?"

The angel looked at him directly, his gaze tender and intense. "There is no word for love, Dean. How can we ever hope to love when it doesn't exist in our world?"

Dean sat up, taking Castiel's face in both hands now. "You don't need a word for it, Cas, not if you feel it. You know I suck at saying stuff, but I can show it. And I'll keep showing it." He kissed Castiel's nose and then smiled encouragingly, rubbing his thumbs along the angel's cheekbones. "Hey, I'll bet that's why so many angels are total dicks, because they don't have the language for something so basic."

With a huffing laugh, Castiel closed his eyes. "Yes, that's probably the case. My language doesn't have the words, but I feel it, Dean. I believe I have for years, though I had to learn what it was the hard way." He took Dean's hands away from his face and clasped them between his own. "It was a challenge, searching my language to find something close enough to 'love' to inscribe upon you."

Dean's brow creased. "Uh, what? Inscribe?" He looked down at his chest then, and saw no marks. "Did you just put something else on my ribs, man? How can there be any more room?"

Castiel shook his head, looking at Dean's chest as well. "It's not on your ribs, it's on your soul."

Dean had no response to that. He should have protested what was essentially going to sleep with someone then waking up to find they'd given him a tattoo with their name in a big heart. But he just couldn't protest at the depth of love radiating from the angel. Especially when he was feeling it too.

_I'm gonna gank myself if I get any worse,_ he thought weakly. _It's just unnatural. It's like I've been bitten by a radioactive cupid._

"Actually, I modified your ribs some time ago," Castiel continued. "When I healed you at Stull Cemetary, I altered enough symbols to allow me – only me – to locate you without aid. Why do you think it only takes a prayer to call me now, where it took a phone before?"

Dean gave a little shrug. "Profound bond?"

With a soft laugh, Castiel touched Dean's shoulder over the scar. It didn't send any great sparks of lust shooting through his body – the man didn't know if he should be thanking God for small miracles or if he was disappointed – and Dean took a deep breath.

"The bond has something to do with it. Always has. But now you are not blocked from my view. Nor is Sam. I did the same for him when I read his soul after your deal with Death. No other angels could find either of you without my direction first, and I couldn't protect either of you without being able to see you." The angel shifted uncomfortably. "It seems despite my efforts I failed in that regard."

"Are you kidding? You've done everything and then some for us, Cas. You gave up Heaven and your family, you fought side by side with us, you _died_ for us – _twice_. So you made a few deals that… okay, I admit it, I'd have done them too, in your shoes. I kinda have before," Dean sighed and tried not to look away from the angel's widening gaze. "I know I've been an ass, believe me. Sam has made sure I know that. I know I was hard on you, blamed you for doing the worse things possible, for lying to me. I'm not saying you've been making great judgment calls, Cas, but…," he bit his lower lip and took a deep breath, "I get it. And I'm… I'm sorry I didn't get it earlier."

Castiel tilted his head in that oh so familiar way and gave the hunter that piercing look that always made Dean's stomach flip a little bit. Then he leaned forward and placed a chaste kiss on Dean's lips. No words were necessary.

_Thank God_, Dean thought, as he ran his fingers through the angel's messy hair and tugged him gently forward for a slightly deeper kiss, because his word-o-meter was just about on empty. Actions always spoke louder anyway.

After a few moments (just enough to leave them both breathless) Castiel pulled back. "We should be going. Sam will be at the diner across the street with Bobby in ten minutes, and we all need to discuss strategy. He says they have an excellent apple pie. And," Castiel did the head tilt again, as if trying to decide if he'd heard correctly. He nodded in confirmation but still looked mildly horrified, "Their special is something called a 'Bacon Explosion' sandwich. Sam says to tell you that if you're going to eat it, then he'd like me to clean out your arteries afterward." Looking at Dean with great seriousness, he said, "This sounds like a dangerous foodstuff. Perhaps you ought to avoid it."

"Angel radio," Dean shook his head in amusement and got reluctantly out of bed. He cleared his throat as he fought down his renewed erection, but was a good boy and only took a very quick shower with no funny business.

Castiel was already dressed when he returned, in the clothes that he'd been wearing for the last four years, now completely renewed and (almost) pristine.

"Dude," Dean scoffed, "why put that old coat and suit on again? You can borrow some of my stuff. Or, hell, you could make new stuff, since you put that back together." He shrugged on his own clothes quickly while laughing at the angel's odd expression.

"I'm accustomed to this, I suppose. And… well, in a way it seems like I ought to. It's part of what I am now."

Dean stared at him, then helped to tug that (apparently meant to be) ever-present blue tie a little less straight. "Well, if the coat is like Superman's cape, then yeah."

_God damn it._ He was just gonna retire from hunting after they saved the world again and find a job writing shitty Valentine's cards.

Before they left the room, just in case he couldn't control his apparent teenager-with-a-crush affliction, he asked, "So what was it you wrote on me earlier?"

Castiel smiled. "In stoned Himalayan gibberish, it's LO-LEH-KEE-ESS OH-LEH MO-NU-OH-NEH-ESS." After the hunter finished laughing, he smirked and continued, "It means 'protect my heart', Dean. You may take that to mean whatever you like."

Castiel went out the door ahead of him, which was good because Dean refused to let the angel see him grin like a giddy girl. He could almost feel the fucking pink hearts and unicorns popping out of his ass. If he ever found another cupid, he was going to kiss it right on its fat little mouth and buy it a drink.

**o - o - o - o**

_Pie was the most perfect food on earth_, Dean thought with a sigh, cutting off another piece of fresh crust filled with warm, sweet apples, and lifted the laden fork. Nothing tasted better, except the angel he was feeding it to.

Castiel allowed the fork to be passed between his lips, then slowly removed after he'd closed them. He chewed with a small smile at the corners of his mouth, watching Dean gaze at him virtually unconcealed adoration. _Maybe I put that Enochian inscription on a little thick_, he laughed inside.

"Wish I'd refilled my flask before I got in here," Bobby grumbled into his third cup of non-Irished-up black coffee. "My God, you guys are even worse _after_ getting laid."

Castiel responded without ever breaking eye contact with Dean. "I thought that getting laid was supposed to make us more bearable. I apologize if I did anything incorrectly. Perhaps we should return to the motel and try again." Dean perked up considerably.

"Lord, take me now," Bobby groaned helplessly.

Sam was grinning ear to ear as he watched his brother(s) being gushy and painfully obvious to anyone that came within fifteen feet of the table. The waitress had nearly burst with glee at their behavior when she'd brought their orders, and was even now nodding toward the table so two more fellow servers could squee together from behind the counter.

It would have been more disgusting if they didn't all know how impermanent it may be. Sam really hoped that, in five years, he could be teasing Dean with sappy anniversary gifts and asking when they were adopting. He hoped that with all his heart.

"As great as it is to sit here and watch you two make goo-goo eyes at each other, we really need to be discussing what we're gonna do about the little problems hanging over our heads," Bobby said, nodding his thanks to the waitress as she refilled his coffee cup. They all waited in polite silence as she poured, and when she asked if they needed anything else, Sam, Bobby and Cas shook their heads, but Dean said, "Ah, could we maybe have a plate of waffles, too?"

"Waffles?" Sam asked when she finally walked away.

"What?" Dean sniffed. "Thought Cas would like 'em, that's all."

"Boys," Bobby said sharply. "_Focus_. We've got to figure out how we're cleaning up all your various messes here."

"Yes," Castiel agreed. "You never did tell me the details of the deal you made for my retrieval, Dean."

Dean briefly told him what they'd agreed to. With each stipulation Cas' face grew stormier.

"You should not have agreed to such a price for me, Dean."

"Hey, we wrap this up in a few days, no price is paid at all. That's a pretty damn good deal if you ask me."

"The crossroads deal isn't all we have to handle," Bobby reminded them. "We also have a coupla primordial figures runnin' around killing civilians, in case you've forgotten."

"I haven't forgotten," Castiel said, voice tight. "I regret allowing Crowley to sway me into freeing the Leviathan, but if there is to be any chance of my forces winning our war, Raphael's Behemoth has to be challenged by something equally fierce."

"You're talking about using the Leviathan as a weapon. Turning her loose on Behemoth and hoping she comes out on top. Aren't you?" The furrow between Sam's brows were pinched, his mouth pulled down in an unhappy moue. Dean would have liked to joke about it how exaggerated it was but showed some restraint and kept his mouth shut. He's sure Sam would have been surprised if he'd known.

"Yes," Castiel said. Dean felt the angel reach under the table for the hand Dean rested on his thigh, and with an indulgent smile met him halfway and threaded their fingers together. He squeezed reassuringly, and Castiel relaxed a small fraction. Sam snorted, and Dean looked over at this brother with a small scowl.

"What?"

Sam wasn't looking at Dean, though. He was looking—no, glaring—at Castiel. Dean flicked his attention from Sam to Castiel and saw that he was meeting Sam's expression and raising him a stubbornly clenched jaw. Silence enveloped the booth, uncomfortable enough that Bobby loudly slurped on his coffee to break it.

Finally, Castiel said flatly, "Sam disapproves of this course of action."

"Are you suggesting I should be happy about it?" Sam asked, fingers curling around the handle of his fork as he viciously speared his eggs. "'Cuz I'm really not. But I'm willing. I said before that I'd call her, and I will."

"Call her?" Dean asked, confused. "What am I missing here?"

Bobby stared down at his plate and returned his focus to his neglected hash browns, Castiel took a sudden interest in the waffles Dean had ordered in addition to their pie (which was awesome, because he was really looking forward to introducing him to maple syrup) and Sam flagged down their waitress, gesturing helplessly toward his empty glass of orange juice.

"Before, when I was...you know..." Sam said, scratching the back of his neck, "She and I might have had a thing."

"A thing?" Dean felt like a very dim child, unable to do more than parrot back phrases it didn't understand. "A thing?" He slipped his hand free of Cas' as he propped both forearms on the table to better gesture in disbelief. "You're telling me you used to bang the Mother of All?"

"That's what you're worried about?" Bobby huffed, plunking down his coffee cup. "No offense, boys, but I have some concerns about the two here at this table that have shown the weakest decision makin' skills suddenly being the ones doing all the plannin'. You all may be idjits, but I ain't."

"If you have any better ideas, Bobby, we're all ears. Let's hear it," Sam said, hands clenching. Dean saw his eyes spiral from their normal blue-green and take on a golden hue, and he leaned in to whisper, "Do we need to be worried about that?"

At Cas' confused expression, Dean said, "His eyes, dude. They like, went golden."

Bobby responded to Sam, "Maybe you've forgotten that we've got a group of hunters nearby that could be willing to help? Why aren't we even considering bringing them in on this?"

"Maybe because they'd all end up dead, Bobby," Sam challenged.

Castiel murmured back to Dean, "I don't think we need to concern ourselves. It is a sign of the elements of Samael in him, but that's not a bad thing. From what I've heard he was a strong strategist, and we could use his knowledge."

"Thank you, Cas," Sam said, turning back towards Dean and the angel. A genuine smile tilted the corners of his mouth. The tips of Cas' ears turned red, which Dean secretly thought was adorable.

"I am not saying I disagree with Bobby, though, Sam," Castiel said. "Having all the forces we can muster can't be anything but to our benefit. We don't know what the Behemoth or Leviathan may unleash, and we'll need to try to keep the forces they bring to battle contained and away from the human population. We may need to arm them with weapons from Heaven's arsenal for them to be effective, but-"

"Great," Bobby growled, "now that's settled, I'm gonna go make a phone call." He threw a few loose bills onto the table top and left the booth, muttering unflattering things about all three under his breath. Dean watched him clamber into his truck and pull out his cell, before turning back to Sam.

"You think Mommy is going to bring her children to play." Dean rubbed his forehead in frustration. "And this is the _good_ plan," he muttered under his breath.

"I didn't say it was a good plan," Sam interjected. "Actually said I was unhappy about it. What Cas is suggesting is calling Eve so that she can fight Behemoth...what he's not saying is that when she does that it's pretty damn likely she's going to open the mouth of hell to do it."

"Purgatory is the only thing that can contain the Behemoth without destroying the very fabric of this reality," Castiel said.

"Not arguing that point," Sam said defensively.

"You guys can't possibly be serious," Dean said, leaning away from Cas to stare at him and his brother. They returned identical blank stares, which okay, creepy, because a guy didn't want to ever see that much of a similarity between his...whatever Cas was to him...and his brother. "I feel like I should be detailing to you all the ways in which opening the mouth of hell is a bad idea, which is scary, because it's _the mouth of hell_. That right there should be enough of a clue." He took a deep breath, and said, "What about that Ziz chick? Think she'd help us? She didn't seem too fond of Eve, and I can't imagine she's any happier with Behemoth."

"She's not powerful enough to defeat Behemoth. She doesn't have the same diametrically opposing relationship with him that Eve does," Castiel replied.

"Okay. Say I agree with this whole scheme," Dean said. "So what happens after Behemoth is gone? We still have another all-powerful monster on the loose with no way of defeating it."

Castiel laid a comforting hand on Dean's forearm. Sam didn't bother to suppress his grin at the sight.

"When the Leviathan is done she will return to her home, Dean."

"Why? Because we ask nicely?"

"Yes," Castiel said, his voice challenging. "She will go when Sam and I command her to."

Dean was silent for a long minute. "You seem pretty damn sure of that."

"We are," Sam said, and there was a hint of shadow to his face, that tightness he got when he was lying to Dean about something, but it was there and gone so quickly the hunter couldn't be sure he didn't imagine it.

"Scuse me," Dean said, nudging Cas. "Let me out," he clarified, when the angel just stared at him in puzzlement. "I'll be right back," Dean reassured him. He gestured to the restrooms. "Nature calls, man."

"Of course," Castiel nodded. The angel watched Dean as he swaggered past the giggling young waitresses. A pleasant thrum settled low in his stomach, and he wished for Dean to return quickly.

_Eve isn't going to just go back because we ask, Cas._ Sam said, interrupting the angel's thoughts. Cas blinked and turned towards his brother, not bothering to deny what he said.

_No, she won't. I'm going to need to force her back._

_You plan on using souls to force her back into Purgatory,_ Sam accused, and Cas nodded.

_If I have enough, she won't be able to deny my command,_ Cas said, almost casually. When all he got in response was Sam's nearly overwhelming disapproval through their connection, he mentally sighed and said, _I know that you feel I am addicted to their power. Perhaps I am. But sacrifice freed her, and sacrifice will seal her once more. _

_Cas, I don't think you're considering..._

_Your arguments will not sway me, Sam. God isn't going to step forward and offer to place her back in Purgatory for us. I will do what I must._

Their brief conversation ended when Dean returned to the table. He pulled out his wallet and threw more money into the small pile Bobby had started.

"You guys ready to go?"

At Cas' puzzled look, Dean grinned, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

"Don't think I forgot what you said about outfitting us with heavenly weapons, Cas. C'mon, I wanna see your toys."

Sam sputtered, and Dean's grin morphed into a smirk.

**o - o - o - o**

Bobby gave a heavy sigh as he sat in his truck and dialed his cell. This was gonna be a long goddamn day and it might be his last. Well, it'd been an interesting life.

They needed more troops. Sam and Dean never had back-up, most hunters didn't hunt in packs. But right now there was a pack of hunters nearby, more than a dozen if some hadn't already hit the road for home. Maybe he'd luck out.

The phone rang three times and Holly picked up. "Whatcha want?" she said by way of greeting.

"Hey, it's Bobby Singer. Got a proposal for you and whoever else might still be hanging out there."

"You got some kinda nerve, calling and asking for anything," she barked. "Your boy Sam and his weird friend who appears out of thin air are on my shit list, and I'm fixin' to add your ass to it, too."

"Goddamn it, what'd they do?" Bobby groaned, putting his fist to his forehead.

"That little one in the long coat knocked me out with some kinda spell, and then right after I woke up Sam was talking to another one, some sleazy guy in a velvet jacket. Who the fuck wears a velvet jacket?"

"I think I know who. Lemme guess, then they both vanished into thin air."

"You got it," she declared angrily. "And then I get wind of that bar in Enoch gettin' flattened by a monster. Which Vern tells me was that big damned hunter he'd been working with. I've got monsters and freaks coming and going in my territory so fast I can't tell who's what anymore!"

Bobby sighed sympathetically. "Yeah, unfortunately I understand. But Holly, there's something bigger going on—"

"You're damned right there is! There's been more signs than a damned construction zone on the Vegas Strip, just since last night! All kinds of bad hoodoo happening. And it's all right here, Bobby. We got a wiccan priestess and a couple native shamans who all had visions of disasters. They brought a bunch of mystical stuff I don't understand. And this really confused nun who just showed up after the Virgin Mary popped up to tell her a 'fight of Biblical proportions' was headed right for us."

"Well, she's right on the money, I hate to say. Holly, we've got demons and angels and a bunch of fucked up monsters from so long ago they've barely got names, and they're all about to start tearing up the countryside. Right now, all I've got is myself, a couple boys, an angel who's in charge of an army that's barely held together by spit and chewing gum, and a few little mystical weapons that'll probably blow up in our faces for all I know. So if any one of you guys are still out there, and if you wanna help fight for the fate of the whole damned universe, I suggest you get out here to Enoch in the next four hours or so, because a shit the size of a blue whale is about to hit the fan."

There was dead silence for about thirty seconds, and Bobby was sure Holly had put the phone down and walked away to call on another phone for the men in white suits to come get him (and he would've welcomed the vacation in a padded cell about now). But he could hear other voices, discussing things a little heatedly. A second later she was back. "Okay, everybody here heard what you said, 'cause I put you on speaker the minute you started talking about demons and angels. I've got fourteen hunters here, and myself, and none of us have backed down from a fight in our lives. You tell us where and we'll be there. 'Course if we all die, we're comin' back as ghosts to kick your ass to hell, Bobby Singer."

"Yeah, I don't doubt that for a minute. Lemme get you coordinates and I'll see ya in a couple hours."

**o - o - o - o**

"Brother!" Balthazar panted as he rushed across the parking lot to Castiel. "I've been worrying myself sick! Why didn't call me, tell me you were alive?"

Castiel looked contrite. "I'm sorry, Balthazar, I literally didn't have the ability to communicate for some time." He clasped the other angel's outstretched hand, which closed desperately around his.

"Then why didn't our long-lost elder brother ring me up?" he scowled at Sam, who shrugged apologetically. "Didn't trouble yourself to think anyone else might be the least concerned about this situation? Thank you so very much, you lumbering mastodon."

"Hey, things were busy," Sam rolled his eyes, "we sort of had _immediate_ problems."

"Save it for the next family Christmas dinner, at which I will pointedly refuse to speak to you or pass the yams," Balthazar waved him off with a scoff. "Cas, I was panicking. I couldn't find you. There was something blocking me and it wasn't the Behemoth."

"Oh," Castiel said, in sudden realization. He pulled the hex bag from his coat pocket. "I had forgotten about this. And of course you couldn't find the Winchesters because of the sigils I put on them long ago. I'm sorry, brother, we should have called you the moment we woke this morning." Castiel gave him a look of sincere regret.

"Bloody right, you should've!" Balthazar breathed a sigh of relief. "I had to search for that ruddy old codger to track you down."

"Hey," Bobby protested, but was ignored.

"Cas, I have enormous, positively world-shattering news," Balthazar was tugging at his hand. "Away from the humans, if you don't mind. Please."

Castiel looked back at his friends (and lover) and nodded that he would be fine. "I won't be long. And I will call if I need you." Sam nodded at that, and they reluctantly went back into the diner.

"Now, what is it, Balthazar?"

"Oh, my dear Cas, you have no idea of the magnitude of this news," Balthazar's face was almost literally beaming. "One of our little spies told me the most remarkable thing, something that could end the war, end Raphael, end every problem we have with Heaven."

Castiel's brow lifted. "What could possibly do all that?" His eyes shot wide. "Is it God? Has He returned?"

"Alas, no, dear brother. But you—" Then Balthazar froze, his enthusiasm washed away in a gut-clenching rage. "There's something different... Oh, no. No, you didn't. With that—" He backed away and gaped in disgust. "He's touched you, hasn't he? You've let him _touch_ _you_. You gave it up, at last… to that barely house-broken primate?

Castiel stiffened, eyes narrowing. "Balthazar, you will not insult him. He is the Righteous Man, even now."

"Of course, Cassy," the blond angel sneered coldly. "So very righteous, taking advantage of your honor while you were fresh out of the hands of our brutal sister."

"Balthazar, enough," Castiel's voice was low and dangerous. "My relationship with Dean is of no concern to you, nor, I am sure, is it relevant to whatever you were going to tell me."

For a minute, Balthazar stood there, breathing hard through his nose. How could Castiel, the best of his brothers, have soiled himself in Dean Winchester's bed? Naturally he himself was far from untainted by human hands, he had no illusion about his own status as a hedonist. But Castiel was a different story. He was still pure even with all the suspect things he'd done, the darkness that touched him hadn't yet infected the depths of his heart. And now he was destined for something so much greater than this world or any sweaty ass-grabbing baboon living on it.

But he braced himself and rolled his shoulders. "Fine, your judgment was impaired at the time, I'll allow you an indiscretion under the circumstances."

"Brother," Castiel's voice went even lower.

Shaking himself free of his anger, Balthazar took a deep breath. "What I have to tell you, Cas… You've been lied to your entire life about what and who you are. Our sister has kept you from your rightful place—"

"Yes, I know. Raphael was kind enough to inform me herself, as she tried to convince me that I should let her take my place on Father's throne."

Balthazar gaped like a scruffy fish. "You know."

"I learned it the hard way, but yes."

"Cas, this is a blessing from Father!" Balthazar entreated, "We can go home. We can take it back! With this power, you can simply knock Raphael out of your way and end the war. Forever."

Castiel sighed, lifting his head and gazing toward the heavens. "I would love to go home and open the gate to that circle, to find our Father has returned and is sitting there already…"

Frustrated, Balthazar dared to grasp Castiel's coat lapels. "Don't you understand? We need to get to it before Raphael."

"She can't," Castiel said calmly, patting Balthazar's shaking hands. "I'm the only one who can. And since I don't have a clue how, it's really academic at this point."

Grunting in annoyance, Balthazar took back his hands and put them through his shaggy hair. "Brother, brother, I can't believe you won't even try. What if you only have to look at it to open it? You could be the key yourself!"

"But I don't know that, and I'm not going to risk Raphael following me." Castiel was firm. "We win this on earth, or we don't win. Raphael will only have earth and six heavens if she succeeds. Father's seat will never be anyone's but His."

"Or yours," Balthazar pleaded.

"…You're asking me to be the _new_ _God_?" Castiel's eyes went hard. "This line of discussion is _over_." Castiel turned away from his brother. He was trembling now, and felt slightly ill. Could the pie be upsetting his stomach?

"Brother, you look pale," Balthazar said with gentle concern. "Oh. When was the last time you visited the cache of monster souls?"

Castiel shivered. "Three, maybe four days ago, I believe. I… I don't think I can risk going right now. Raphael will be watching for me. I shall try to manage without."

Balthazar's face tightened. "Cas, you're having withdrawal. You're not going to be fit for battle like this. Please, I can sneak up and grab one or two—"

"No," Castiel barked. "No one can risk it. I will manage this. I am stronger than that. I am… better than that." He recalled Dean's words the night of his confession with painful clarity now. And Sam, he'd said such a thing would never end well.

"Cold turkey, Cas, you can't—"

"Enough, Balthazar!" Cas hissed harshly. "This habit has been a mistake, and I can only blame myself for it. Because of it I, and those I care for, have suffered. It ends now." He broke off, stiffening his body to hide the shaking.

Balthazar stood silently, truly afraid, not just for his brother but himself. He bit his lip, knowing what he said next could make everything worse, but he had little choice. He only hoped he would still be in the realm of those Castiel cared for after.

"One more tiny thing," Balthazar said with a lower voice. "I have bargained away my grace for your rescue."

Castiel's head twitched toward him. "What?"

With a deep, shaky breath, he began. "When Behemoth took you, I gave him the Horn and asked that Raphael spare you." When Castiel's eyes flashed in disbelief, he pressed on. "I was terrified, brother. I couldn't go to you myself, no angel could. But a demon could. I went to Crowley, told him what was happening, asked for his help. He was reluctant, as I expected, so I offered my grace to Hell. It would be fuel enough for him to control his subjects for centuries. He said he would happily take back the Horn, and even rescue you in the process. But he wanted something from you as well. Brother, I didn't know what to do, so I told him there was a way to pull souls from Heaven, that they were pure and the power of a single one was greater than a hundred in Hell."

Castiel's face had gone stone still, his lips white and pinched. "You know of the well of souls. You told him you'd give him those souls."

"I didn't say precisely that, just souls from Heaven." Balthazar's head hung in true sorrow, and a little fear.

Castiel couldn't see what he looked like at the moment – huge and fiery. His brother didn't know that his grace had grown since he'd become aware of his status. Wings had multiplied and colors with no names were sparking within his form. Cas was terrifying and beautiful, and Balthazar was heartbroken that he'd let his brother down.

"I am sorry, Cas, I had to save you."

Castiel inhaled deeply, clenching his fists. "I understand your motive, but it still presents us with an impossible problem. I can't give him those souls, just as I can't let him have your grace. And right now I can't worry about either of those problems, because Raphael and Behemoth will be attacking within hours. Leviathan is being called to help, but how the battle will go is anyone's guess. We are still severely outmatched."

"I may have a weapon to help," Balthazar said swiftly, "I've been searching for the Ark, and I'm sure now that I've its location."

Castiel's eyes widened hopefully. "The contents of the Ark… yes, if you can find it, bring it quickly."

"Of course, brother. There are other weapons in the storage, I'll bring those as well. But the Ark itself would require another angel to release, and I could use the moose- I mean Sam's help. He still has enough trace of angel that it may work."

Castiel knew he couldn't spare the time himself. "Very well. But hurry."

They crossed to the hunters, explained their plans, and Balthazar grabbed Sam for a little trip. A rather surprising trip.

**o - o - o - o**

Sam's mouth hung open as Balthazar fiddled with the lock on the storage door. "You have got to be fucking kidding me!"

"Can you see the building? Can you read the sign?" the angel bitched at him, as the lock finally gave.

"Yeah, I fucking see it. It's _Castle_ _Storage_, my dad's storage building!" Sam shouted.

"Then you know I'm not fucking kidding you. Now help me get this door opened."

"You're an angel, you're not weak," Sam snorted but swung the door open in one pull.

"And it's angel-proofed as much as I was capable of doing while still inside and the door opened just enough to slide back out under it before it slammed shut. I can move it but I'd rather avoid having to heal myself of a hernia just at the moment." He strode inside, trembled a bit as he passed the sigil on the door. "I'm not the only angel who'd love to get their paws on the goodies in here. A veritable Aladdin's cave of dangerous shit like you've never seen."

"Yeah, I get it. But why here? For crying out loud, this is like a neon sign."

"Exactly, dear boy," Balthazar crept through the room, avoiding other traps he'd set. He looked like he was Indy tiptoeing through the Peruvian temple. "Raphael's goons aren't programmed to think this cleverly. Hiding in plain sight, right under their noses, whatever idioms you want to use. Besides, your lovely father had so many protective wards all over the place, and it was just going to waste. It's one of the best guarded places on earth, better than Fort Knox. John Winchester knew his stuff, all right. Why do you think it's been left alone all these years with no one paying fees?" Balthazar smirked at Sam's confused shrug. "_Very_ good wards. The only reason you boys found it is because he wanted you to. And I found it because Cas told me."

Balthazar paused to catch his breath, leaning against shelves filled with random junk. "In fact, with all the extras I added against angels, I'm giving myself a bloody migraine right now. Thus the reason I brought extra muscle." He nodded at Sam's enormous frame.

"Right," Sam rolled his eyes. "You told Cas that you only _thought _you knew where the Ark was. But you actually knew all along?"

"Well, yes. But the Ark was a very recent acquisition, if that helps to make me look less like a shifty bastard."

"Not really."

Balthazar scowled. "I am loyal to Castiel, do not doubt me there. Here, make yourself useful, would you? That long box there," he pointed at a five-by-two foot wooden box with metal clamps. "Fetch."

He pulled a face, but went. Sam was hesitant, knowing that how right the angel was about John's warding skills. He also wondered he was going to throw his back out lifting the thing. But for something that looked like solid oak and iron, it weighed only as much as a standard suitcase. "Magic?" he asked as he carried it by a leather handle back to Balthazar.

"Indeed, and it will hold virtually any amount. Bigger on the inside, you see." He grinned and pushed himself upright again. "All right, now to pick through the goods before opening the _really_ big box." He clapped his hands together as he surveyed the room, which Sam finally noticed was much fuller than the last time he'd been there. Swords, daggers, wands, goblets, books, enough to fill a small museum, lay in heaps on newer shelving. Balthazar had definitely been busy. And not very tidy.

"Cas said the weapons of Heaven were with him, but they were here all the time, huh?"

"Well, no, actually, this is just one stash. A large portion was kept in a locked dimension in Heaven, which I opened yesterday to retrieve the Horn." He grabbed an axe and lifted the lid of the box, dropping it inside. It disappeared. "Shortly after that, I opened it again and passed out all the weapons to our troops for safe-keeping. And because we are undoubtedly going to be using each and every one of them before the day is over." He continued placing various tools and books in the box until he was satisfied with the collection.

"Now we must find the proper weapons for you and Dean."

"We've got the Colt back, and the demon-killing knife."

"And of course those are proven weapons against angels. Put Sammy in the dunce corner," Balthazar regarded him with disgust then turned to the cage against the wall, which he unlocked. "Hard to believe you were once one of us. Ah, here we go. The lance of St. George for you, I think." He passed the long wooden spear to Sam, who put it into the box, still amazed at the fact it was holding so much. "And this should delight your brother. The flaming sword from the Garden of Eden, once wielded by an angel. Don't worry, the pilot light still works in the proper hands. Should light right up in the hands of someone who's already a flamer."

Sam's brows dropped until his eyes were nearly obscured. He really wished he could afford to beat the hell out of Balthazar. The angel was clearly furious about Dean and Cas. Well, tough shit.

Dropping the sword into the box, Balthazer turned. "Now, Sam, for the grand prize. The Ark of the Covenant." He swept his arm showily toward a huge lump covered with a tarp. "Well, go on."

Sam sighed irritably but lifted the cloth over to reveal the enormous golden case with the two angels atop it. "Wow," he breathed. "It really does like this, huh?" He felt a twinge of guilt for the time he duped Cas with the claim of having found it, and followed that by threatening to kill the angel. _Yeah, Cas should've kicked my ass_.

"Yes, once in a great while your Hollywood gets something right. Except it won't melt anyone's face off. A mere human couldn't have lifted the lid anyway. See these two?" he indicated the angels. "Jahoel and Zarall, the guardians. Literally, it's them, they've sat here frozen in place for four thousand years. Weirdos."

"Uh, so what do we do?"

"Well you take Z and I'll take J. Get around behind him, that's right. And just smack them upside their lazy heads." At Sam's enormous eyes, Balthazar said, "I'm quite serious." He cuffed Jahoel soundly on the skull. Sam followed suit with Zarall, though he cringed.

Instantly the two angels sprang to life, sloughing off the gold that covered them, and stretching their wings, which then vanished from sight.

"About damned time," Zarall complained as he crawled off the lid. "I mean, I like my beauty sleep, but really."

Jahoel yawned and threw his legs over the side of the box, and regarded the two others in the room. "Hey, Balthazar. Interesting new vessel."

"Yes, believe it or not, a recently defrocked priest. Got into a bit of trouble over choirboys."

"Oh my God," Sam choked.

"Zip it. You take the believers where you find them, and he was still a believer. He just also happened to be a pervert. Which made him all the more appropriate for me. Anyway, welcome back boys, just in time for the Apocalypse, Mark 2."

"Damn it," Zarall muttered. "Why do they always wanna end the world?"

"It's not the humans, Z, it's the big boys."

Zarall lifted his brows. "And this is the second time?"

"In two years, no less."

"Then it's serious this time."

"Oh shut up, and let's open the box, shall we?"

Jahoel slid down from the top. "Everyone take a corner." They all moved into place. "Oh, hey, Samael. Good to see you again."

"Uh, hi," Sam said uncomfortably, digging his fingers underneath the lip of the lid. He vaguely noticed that the angels were identical. Their vessels were three thousand year old twin brothers. Weird.

"Yeah, we'll catch up later," Jahoel nodded. "On three?"

"One," Balthazar counted, "two. Three."

And they all heaved mightily. A hiss of old compressed air shot out all sides, making Sam cough but not the others. They moved the lid aside with a thump, and Zarall peered inside. "Okay, do they need everything?"

"No, the tablets are pretty much useless in this society," Balthazar chuckled wryly. "And manna is horrid even when fresh, let alone jarred for three millennia. What we need is this." He grasped a long staff the thickness of his wrist and about the height of his vessel. "The Rod of Aaron."

Sam's eyes went wide again. "You had the staff of Moses. This is his brother's?"

"Aw, you read your Bible, Sam, that's a good boy, have a biscuit," Balthazar spoke as though petting Sam's head with words. "Okay, everyone. No time to lose."

He snapped them all back to Utah.

**o - o - o - o**

The group of hunters and Castiel with his troops were waiting in the desert, about a hundred miles from any town. Weapons were passed around and, in some cases, explained. The other angels greeted their long missing brothers and filled them in on details.

Dean predictably swooned over his cool-as-shit BAMF sword, and practically twirled it like a cheerleader's baton. When Sam pointed this out, Dean flushed red and threatened to smite him. Sam shook his head, the lance slung over his shoulder.

Castiel received Aaron's Rod reverently, nodding to Balthazar in a nearly silent conversation. Dean stopped playing around and watched them. He was getting uneasy with Balthazar around, the angel kept shooting Dean glares of pure hatred, and honestly it felt like actual daggers were pinging off his skin.

Cas held the Rod vertically at arm's length, then spoke a low word of command. It glowed pale blue, and what looked like leaves began to sprout along its length. Wow, that was totally cooler than his sword, it was practically a _light saber._ He did _not_ pout, not at all. Castiel spoke another word and the Rod returned to normal then shrank down to about the size of a flashlight. Just like a light saber would. Damn it, he _was_ jealous.

Cas put it into his coat pocket. So he wouldn't be using it right away. Must be a secret weapon. How awesome was that? Dean hoped he'd be nearby to see when Cas whipped the rod out and gripped the shaft and it sprang forth into the long, glowing, throbbing HOLY FUCK BATMAN.

Dean almost slapped himself with shame and viciously quashed the desire coursing through his veins. This was a life and death situation, and he was suddenly a horny teenager. One good taste of angel grace and apparently he was ruined for anyone else. This had better end with them winning the war, or he would welcome the rack just to forget everything.

**o - o - o - o**

While the hunters were admiring their various heavenly weapons, Castiel was checking the bottom of Balthazar's box, making sure there was not any firepower accidentally left behind. He was prepared to declare it empty when his fingers brushed against a small lump of cool metal and what felt to be a cord. Pulling it out, he recognized what it was immediately. How could he not? He'd worn it for months while on his fruitless search for God.

There, in the palm of his hand, was Dean's amulet. The very amulet he'd returned to the hunter before the apocalypse, when he was exhausted and so close to human and losing his faith. The amulet that Dean had thrown away in a motel room hundreds of miles from here, that had no business being in a magical lock box in Castle Storage.

Part of him felt angry—fiercely, bitterly angry—to see the amulet. This was all he was to receive from God? _This_ was God's contribution? But then quiet resignation settled in. Castiel had not really expected God to interfere in this war, not really. He supposed he should be grateful to even receive this token of His esteem.

Shakily, he slipped it over his head and under his shirt, immediately comforted by its slight weight. He could feel the calm assurance of the love Dean had imbued the piece with settle his grace and take the edge off of his craving for souls. They would be able to win this battle, he told himself. They would win, and the world would continue on as it always had before. Dean would have his freedom if not his peace. No matter what Castiel had to do to ensure it.

* * *

><p><strong><em>Author's Notes:<em>**

_Enochian is ridiculous. The pronunciation is as close as could be determined, as there are two pronunciation systems. The traditional as used on the show is also used here. The words are slightly different that what Castiel translates, due to lack of specific words in the language to being with, but they carry the same intent. Taken from "The Complete Enochian Dictionary" by Donald Laycock and "The Angelic Language" by Aaron Leitch._

_The random weapons are mostly made up. But you can read about St. George's Lance and the Flaming Sword Of Eden on their Wiki pages._

_The Ark of the Covenant contains four things, according to one version – a jar of manna, the Ten Commandments, and Aaron's staff. The staff's description is cobbled together from various traditional versions. The names of the angels come from "The Encyclopedia of Angel" by R.E. Guiley._


	8. Chapter 8

Rating, warnings and summary can be found at Chapter 1.

* * *

><p>Weapons distribution and creation was slower and more tedious than Dean thought it was going to be. He kept shooting Castiel longing glances; it seemed the one time he did want the angel's gaze firmly attached to him was the one time he'd be busy elsewhere. Dean internally pouted as he watched the angel walk to the far end of what they'd determined was going to be the battlefield, gesturing towards an old cabin that was being converted into an emergency hidey-holemedic center.

Dean thought that was rather optimistic of them; he knew the chances of the humans in this upcoming shindig surviving were slim to none. But he wasn't going to argue against it; often times the only thing that stood between a man winning or losing was a show of confidence from his leader, Dad had once said. And despite his protests, the humans thought of him as their leader, so he was going to lie and act like everything was going to be fine.

Everything was going a bit too smoothly, actually. In Dean's experience, things like this weren't supposed to be planned ahead of time, or well thought out, at least on his side of things. People were milling about, but it was with purpose, and he kept waiting for something unexpected to happen, just because it was so unusual that nothing unexpected _wasn't_ happening.

The unexpected finally happened right after Sam called for Eve. No, Dean didn't know how it was done; he assumed it was some sort of freaky mind thing or bond or whatever. But Sam had closed his eyes, gone stone still with a fierce expression, and then opened fully-golden eyes to announce it was done. Dean wasn't going to argue; if Sam said he called her, he did, no matter how much it just looked like he was constipated.

And so they were carefully preparing their chosen battlefield, when Ziz appeared.

"Ziz," Sam said, not keeping the surprise from his voice. "You're...not who I was expecting."

"She heard your call, Samael." Ziz said, coolly. "She will come in her own time."

"That's reassuring," Sam said, even though it wasn't, "but there's an epic fight that's gonna start any time now, and—"

Ziz blinked her large dark eyes at him. "Your battle will happen with the rise of the sun, not its setting."

"Uh...great." The nun (who of all those prophesying the who-where-and-when of this heavenly showdown had the most complete visions) must have been confused as to the exact timing. This was technically good news, Sam guessed; it would give them more time to prepare, but it would also give the troops more time to be nervous. Grinning weakly, Sam handed the book he'd been skimming off to an angel with a small nod. Dean watched as they both just stared at each other after that for a long, uncomfortable minute, before Sam broke and said, "Um. Why are you here?"

_Good question. Like that question,_ Dean thought, but was not about to say. To say that Ziz hadn't been happy with him at the parting of their last meeting would be like saying 'rain makes you wet' or 'war kinda sucks'.

"Your human brother. Where is he?"

"Here," Dean said, stepping forward. He gave a bare approximation of his normal charming smile, wondering even as he forced it across his features if it looked more like a grimace than a grin. Ziz certainly didn't look impressed with it.

"Dean Winchester," she said, words carefully paced and concise. What was with all the really scary monsters and saying his full name? "I have come to tell you I will not interfere in your coming battle."

"Um. Thanks," Dean said, wondering if he should point out that it wasn't his battle, exactly, it was more Cas' and they were just helping out, but then he realized how lame that would sound, and it had the flavor of a lie anyways.

"But I do demand retribution. You stole a child from me and I will not be satisfied until I receive a sincere apology and a proper tribute."

With seeming disinterest Ziz looked across the barren ground to where various hunters are placing simple trip-wire landmines in shallowly carved out hollows. Her gaze skipped beyond them to where yet another group of hunters were being instructed in the use of their holy weapons and straight towards Holly, who was demonstrating her backpack holy oil flamethrower to a small cluster of angels, who watched the spray of fire with wide eyes.

"I...sincerely apologize," Dean said, with a great lack of creativity. Sam pursed his lips in a significant manner, and Dean continued, slowly, "Is there any way we can make amends?"

"These are your troops," Ziz stated, betraying nothing more than a vague interest.

Dean flicked a brow at his brother, but Sam shrugged, not knowing where she was going with it either. "Yeah," Dean nods. "But they don't have anything to do with-"

Ziz turned back towards Holly and paused. Her eyes narrowed in on the woman and she walked towards her. Without asking permission, giving warning, or any concerning for the burst of flammables coming from the tip of the thrower's nozzle, Ziz insinuated herself close to Holly and kissed her upon the cheek. As calmly as she'd approached the woman Ziz retreated, returning to Dean with a barely-there smile. "Our debt is settled."

"What did you do?" Dean demanded. He looked beyond the mother phoenix to Holly, who swayed slightly on her feet and then straightened, acting for all the world as if nothing had happened. She returned to her demonstration, picking up right where she left off.

"As I said, our debt is settled. She was yours; now she's mine."

"You...you turned her into a monster?"

Instead of answering a question Dean already knew the answer to anyways, Ziz said, "Cross me again and you shall perish."

Dean nodded. "Understood."

"Goodbye, Dean Winchester," Ziz said, and was gone.

**o - o - o - o**

"What the fuck?" Dean growled as he stomped into the motel room and flung the flaming sword with total lack of concern for either the value of the weapon or the bed for it's flammability. "I cannot believe that someone could have a vision about the apocalypse, right down to the place and time, but not know if it's AM or PM!"

"Dean, it was her first vision," Castiel sighed as he followed the frustrated hunter inside and closed the door. "She's quite young, and unaccustomed to visitations from the Virgin Mother of God. All she saw was a clock on the wall, which doesn't indicate day or night, merely the hour."

"Fuck," Dean reiterated, running his hand through his short hair. "We've got two more days to void our contracts with Crowley, so please just tell me we're fighting the forces of Heaven tomorrow? I can't believe I just asked that."

"Yes, Dean, it will be in the morning. So you have time to rest and refresh your strength before battle. I suggest you go to bed."

"Or," the hunter said, his voice lower and far less agitated, "we could both get into bed." He stalked slowly over to the angel, grinning suggestively. "We could get a little grace-on-soul action."

Castiel's eyebrows went up very slightly. "I don't think—"

Dean had reached him and was sliding fingertips up his arms, up to his jaw, around the back of his head, and tugging him forward until their lips met. It was gentle at first, but Cas knew it would soon turn passionate and desperate, and considering the way he felt now – head pounding, gut aching – it would be folly to encourage the hunter, and he hadn't the strength to argue. Regretfully, he stroked two fingers across Dean's temple and caught the man's body just before he hit the floor, but didn't have the power to lift him onto the bed.

He loved Dean, and would probably die for him again. But he also couldn't let the human see his wasted condition. Balthazar had been right – he was having withdrawal. He should call his brother and…

No, he wouldn't take another soul. He'd promised himself, and therefore promised Dean.

He sat on the floor for long minutes until Balthazar came of his own accord. The other angel begrudgingly put Dean on one of the beds then gave his attention to his brother. He peeled the trench coat, jacket and tie from Cas' shaking body, and held him for the next hour while the other angel sweated and moaned weakly, and at one point vomited in the toilet.

Balthazar begged that Cas allow him to bring a soul, to have a quick fix, but was rebuffed over and over. Stubborn damned thing. He sat in frustration as Cas shivered like he was frozen through. Like he was back inside Raphael's cage in Heaven. Then, it was he who'd pled for Castiel's freedom, the only one who dared speak up or face the wrath of the archangel. He was very nearly punished for doing so.

Why his brother loved the very human who caused such tortures, Balthazar would never fathom. Even now, weak and hurt and needing comfort he refused to take, Cas lay on the bed near Dean, eyes trained on the human's face as though it alone would save him. The depths of Balthazar's hatred grew until he was willing to risk his brother's wrath to tear off the hunter's pretty head, and probably would have if Sam hadn't come in and taken over.

Muttering soft curses, he pushed past the enormous hunter and snarled, "Your brother is lucky you chose to fall to be in Dean Winchester's life. _My _brother isn't lucky he chose to copy you."

Sam did his best to care for Castiel for a couple hours, putting cool clothes on his face, helping him back to the toilet for dry heaves, and forcing him to drink water. He was extremely glad that Dean was unconscious.

Through it all, Cas never did what he'd done – beg for the substance that had brought him down to this, not even when Sam offered his own soul's energy. While he was proud of Cas' willpower, he was also greatly worried. And wondered how the angel expected to fight tomorrow's apocalyptic battle.

After five hours of hell, Castiel rested. He awoke three hours later, feeling drained beyond belief. It was only gazing on Dean's peaceful face – and feeling the amulet around his neck – that gave him any desire to get up.

Sam had been researching but was now asleep, head on his crossed arms at the motel table, laptop still open to whatever web page he'd been reading last. Cas vaguely remembered the hunter saying he wanted to look for any other method of calling Eve forward, since she'd declared even Samael wasn't a good enough reason – she was apparently annoyed at him for both ancient and recent slights. Though he doubted anything would come of it, Sam still searched.

Sitting up slowly, his head still slightly ached, but it was clearer. He washed his face in the bathroom, and gazed dispassionately at the dark circles under his eyes. His strength was returning slowly, and he knew the day would be epically challenging just for him alone. But he would face it.

He went to wake Sam when, without warning, the amulet pulsed hot against his chest. He gasped softly, and put his hand over the small lump beneath his shirt. Oh, Father. God wasn't there. But it must be of great importance as it had never worked, even while standing right next to his Father. The amulet pulsed again, warm, not hot. The warmth seeped into him, into his grace, giving him a bit of energy. His Father hadn't forsaken him after all. He would be successful in battle today, and his plans for the final stroke would—

With a small smile, he bent over Sam, meaning to shake him, and glanced at the laptop screen. There were several windows open, some to banishing spells against the Leviathan specifically. And there was another thing, brightly colored, in the corner. Castiel, having learned how to click a mouse at least, opened this image. And he froze. It was a page of a medieval illuminated manuscript, from a book called _The Winchester Psalter_. The back of his neck tingled as he looked closer at the picture. An angel, with a key, locking the gate of Purgatory. No. An archangel, the caption said. The mouth of the Leviathan barely contained behind that gate, still filled with monsters struggling to escape, so close to the surface…

His flesh crawled and he wondered if he would be sick again. He'd been planning to try this. But now he knew there was obviously something greater to be done.

He closed the laptop, woke Sam, woke Dean (who didn't remember anything but the beginning of a "really nice dream, pity it was only a dream" while smiling warmly at Cas) and they left the motel to meet the rest of their team and prepare for the true battle.

**o - o - o - o**

It started out so civilized, as though there would be rules to the battle. The two armies stood ready, facing each other across the hard-packed desert ground.

On one side were Raphael's angels, multitudes standing row after row after row, still and waiting in their black suits. They were professional, honed like razors. Scary as shit. To Dean and Sam, it looked like a convention of reapers. And neither of them doubted those guys were present in droves as well. Dean would be sure to say hi to Tessa.

On the other side were Castiel's band of rebels. Dean had already compared them in his mind to the Rebel Alliance, because, hey, lots of them had super powers that were roughly Jedi-like and were mostly dressed alike and had cool weapons. And the rebels always won. Plus of course Cas had that Rod thing, which he would eventually whip out and it would grow about ten times _and he was going right back to Hell._

Okay, think of something else Star Wars related. Who would be which character?

He was obviously Han Solo, because no one else was allowed to have that badass role. That meant Sam the Sasquatch was Chewie, which made Dean actually snort aloud. (Sam glared as if he knew what Dean had thought.) So did that make Cas Luke? After the night before last, it might be Leia. Dean grinned a little stiffly. Those two were twins anyway, close enough. Bobby was obviously Obi Wan. Except Obi Wan died, and that wasn't a thought he wanted to pursue further, so he snapped out of it and focused on the situation in front of him.

His Luke/Leia was striding across the desert to meet Ms. Darth Fucking Vader in business casual and high heels. That was fucked up.

It was the very definition of exercise in futility, trying to meet halfway and follow protocol of honorable battle. Cas was trying so hard not to risk lives. It made Dean's throat ache. Damned angel, war was supposed to be dirty and brutal from the get-go.

Raphael knew that. Without warning, she released her blade and swung at Castiel's throat. He ducked just in time, and from a crouch he lashed out his leg and took her down. He stood up with his own blade drawn but could not attack, because Raphael's entire army was suddenly moving as one across the field. Castiel could only retreat to join his forces.

How the hell were they supposed to do this? They had ten times fewer fighters. Everyone was skilled in combat, but the numbers were what mattered in the end. Oh well, he'd died so many times already he probably had a punch-card in his soul, and hopefully when it was full he'd get something really awesome like peace on earth. That wouldn't suck.

He took a deep breath and threw himself into the fray. He couldn't afford to pay much attention to where anyone else was, not even Sammy. This time he knew his brother had an advantage like never before. Sammy would be fine, Cas would be fine, Bobby and the hunters would be fine. He chanted that to himself while he hacked and slashed with his great big flaming sword. Lucky for him it was a heavenly weapon, and it worked just as well as an angel blade in taking the bastards down. Even more impressive than the blade really; that just made grace shoot out and explode. This thing made them burn like a Roman candle while the grace shot out and then exploded. Even luckier for him, the fire didn't burn the wielder. This thing fuckin' rocked.

**o - o - o - o**

Sam plunged the St. George lance into angel after angel, managing to spear two together once. His strength had grown again, he could feel the archangel inside him flexing and pounding away, but never trying to overpower the human. At last, he had synergy.

He grinned tightly, and knew if Dean saw his face right now the ferocity would freak him out. So he did his best to stay away from Dean. He knew his brother could hold his own. He was focusing more on keeping angels away from humans.

The hunters battled like the seasoned pros they were, going after everything in a business suit. Well, the ones who didn't have blue bandanas tied on their upper arms. Yes, Dean's idea. They couldn't play as shirts and skins, he'd said, so arm bands would have to do. No good if players who couldn't tell one angel from another killed their own team. And thank God for Dean's childish ways, sometimes.

Some of the hunters' weapons were modified guns or swords, which weren't killing but were maiming the vessels badly enough the angels had to pause to heal themselves. At least a dozen angels had been chopped up badly enough that they'd abandoned the vessels entirely. Not dead, but no longer in the fight.

The oldest three hunters, Bobby included, were waving mystical warding devices and chanting various spells in Enochian that protected or expelled. Any human within ten yards was safer. And any angel within that same space was cast from their vessel, so they had to be very careful around their own troops. But it was working.

Other hunters had various heavenly weapons, most of them in sword, spear or axe form. They were doing a fair amount of damage with those.

And then some weapons were just… inspired.

Holly had her flame thrower (ex-military, she'd said, and she knew where to 'shop'). The tank was filled with a mix of liquid propane and holy oil. Not enough to trap an angel, but it sure as hell hurt them when it hit.

The pair of guys he'd met at her place were kicking ass and taking names, lobbing what looked like homemade pipe bombs (God, was everyone a secret anarchist?) filled with who-knew-what. Obviously mystical in nature, it left the angels who were hit dazed and confused, but had no effect on humans. He'd have to find out what that stuff was. It had come from the shamans, some herb or weed that was mixed into the explosives.

For a band as small as they were, it was amazing they'd lasted the twenty minutes they'd been fighting so far. But no one was stupid enough that they didn't know how this would end.

Dean's motto: 'Kill some evil sons-of-bitches and raise a little hell' was definitely embraced by every person on the field. He really hoped any of them survived to enjoy the hell-raising, and that it wouldn't be literal.

They were losing people, of course. Many angels had fallen on both sides. And two hunters. He was bloody himself, and it wasn't all from the enemy. It wouldn't last much longer.

Then… what the hell?

Another army, almost as big as Raphael's, came swarming across the field. They laid into the archangel's troops with inhuman power. Sam could smell the sulfur from fifty yards away. Demons?

Again, _what the hell?_

He found himself pushed near Balthazar for a moment, and the angel shouted, "Crowley sent them!"

"But he wants us to fail, he wants our souls!" Sam shouted back.

"He wants something else even more! They're on our side, for now!"

And they were swept away from one another again. Sam fought his way toward Dean to share the news.

He was almost where Dean fought, just in time to see one of Raphael's angels stab him through from behind. He was inhaling for a scream, but Dean didn't even notice the blade. In fact, there was no blood. The angel he fought went up in flames, and the one behind him looked completely stunned. Sam took advantage of that moment to rush forward and impale him.

"Dean!" Sam shouted. Dean turned, smiling and sweating.

"Hey, Sammy! Not doing too bad, eh?"

"Yeah, and we have reinforcements! Crowley sent demons and they are on our side, so don't kill 'em!"

"You're fucking kidding me!"

"Nope!"

Dean was silent half a second. Then nodded. "Okay, man, let's kick some angel butt."

And back to kicking they went, pulled away from each other again.

**o - o - o - o**

Dean really wished he hadn't allowed himself to get separated from Sam.

When the demons came swarming through the red-rock landscape, sick grins and even more demented gleams in their eyes, Dean had thought things might actually turn out well for them. He didn't understand completely why Crowley had sent the reinforcements, but he didn't particularly care. They started to win, and it was awesome.

Then Raphael called in her big gun.

If he hadn't been facing towards Cas in that moment, Dean doubted he would have seen exactly what happened. Cas'd just swept his sword forward, slicing cleanly through yet another of Raphael's asshole angels, when the she-bitch herself actually reached down her blouse and pulled something out. Raphael stumbled on her sling-backs as she popped the cap and to throw its contents on Castiel. Some sort of sparkling powder spilled on her, and she cursed even as she tossed the rest over Castiel. Raphael made a complicated hand gesture, and Castiel fell to his knees, gasping.

"Cas!" Dean screamed, even knowing it was futile; there was no way Castiel could hear him over the din. He lost several seconds as two more angels converged on him, but Dean had a purpose and a mission: Cas was in trouble. He was going to save him. With a wide sweep he dispatched both of them, and a quick knee to the gut distracted the third who followed close behind long enough that he could whack the angel across the back of the head with the flat of the blade.

When Dean looked up again, Raphael's fist was connecting with Castiel's sternum, and then he was flying across the field. Dean watched in horror as he tumbled precariously close to one of their outlying IED patches. Castiel was able to stop himself just short, somehow, of the trip wire, and Dean barely had time to thank God when he was knocked down from behind.

Dean and the angel atop him tussled briefly as a rocking boom sounded out somewhere across the field. Swearing as he jammed the blade through his combatant's fleshy abdomen, Dean shoved the flaming now-corpse aside and reflexively looked towards the source of the noise. It seemed several of Raphael's troops had sought to take advantage of Cas while he was down. Dean grinned in fierce delight at the chunks of their vessel's charred remains still burning merrily, as they were blown to bits by the holy oil landmine.

Castiel brandished his own blade and began making his way steadily back towards Raphael, and that was when she apparently decided that enough was enough.

Dean didn't know how Raphael managed it. One moment Cas was heading towards her with his 'someone is getting their ass smote in about two seconds' expression and then-

The ground began to rumble, then outright shake. Combatants crashed into one another, trying more to stay upright than to strike deadly blows. Then with a sound of thunder and a groaning creak, a sinkhole formed on the west side of the battleground, taking a good quarter of their demonic reinforcements and a fair number of their angels, too. Behemoth crawled out of it, his stupid ginger mullet ruffling in the dusty aftershocks.

And then they were _really_ in trouble.

Behemoth, instead of charging directly into the fray as both sides clearly expected, knelt down, pressing his palm flat on the hard-packed earth. He began chanting softly.

"No!" Castiel shouted as he struggled through the tide of bodies, his voice carrying clearly across the near-hush that had befallen the battlefield. "He must not be allowed to finish that spell!"

It was too late. With a wicked curling grin, Behemoth clapped his hands, just once, and the ground twitched. There was no other word for it. It twitched, then rippled, and then-

"Holy shit," Dean said.

Dirt, dust, rocks, and the ashes of smote or slain fighters joined large bubbles of earth that began to swell out of the ground. First ten, then twenty, and then many, many more than Dean wanted to ever consider. The bubbles lurched upward as and began to solidify, forming legs, then torsos, followed by arms and hands and shoulders and fuck-it-all.

"Golems!" a far-distant voice shouted. As if it was a cue, each earth-made creature suddenly became animated and lurched forward.

"Damn it, Sam," Dean said as he watched the golems destructively shamble through what remained of their demonic reinforcements. "Hope your old lady gets here soon."

As if his words conjured him, Dean saw Sam through the ruckus. He was drenched in blood, but from the way he was moving it was clear that little of it was his own. His brother used the lance as if it was an extension of his body, keeping just the right amount of distance between himself and his opponents as he thrust and slashed through them. Definitely able to take care of himself if he'd been fighting under normal circumstances; unfortunately these circumstances were anything but normal. Sam's fluid step-step-thrust fighting had brought him close to the center of the conflict; right where Behemoth was now standing.

The beast had an even longer reach than Sam, and when confronted with the Spear laughed and knocked it away. Dean watched as his brother was picked up with one hand, as he held by the neck and shaken, and he roared at his own inability to help him. He was simply too far away; he'd never get there in time to save him.

And then with timing straight out of a movie, Eve appeared. With the same straight-from-a-movie flare for dialogue, she sneered, "Behemoth."

Behemoth answered her sneer with a snarl as he tossed Sam aside like so much garbage as he fell to a half-crouch and charged.

**o - o - o - o**

He was fading, fast.

The powder that Raphael had thrown at him (shifter bones mixed with a rare fae root, Castiel thought from the smell) had bound him to his vessel and limited his abilities as it ate away his grace, which had already been strained to its limit by his own refusal to absorb another soul.

He had no such qualms now. Victory was so close, just within his grasp. Victory, and freedom for Dean. Possibly peace.

Castiel wasn't going to risk that for the sake of a promise or his own sensibilities.

When Eve stepped onto the battlefield Castiel knew immediately, even though he didn't see it happen. He also knew as soon as she opened the door to Purgatory. Hundreds of amorphous humanoid shapes twisted into existence, screaming at a decibel beyond human comprehension. Without hesitation he reached for the closest monster soul and absorbed it into himself, then another. A dozen souls were pulled to power him before he slowed, chest heaving, face flushed.

"You are an abomination, Castiel."

Raphael stared at him with a curled lip.

"I am the abomination?" Castiel asked, watching her slowly leaking grace with horror. "You are the one using our brothers and sisters to power yourself! Look at what's happening, Raphael!"

Sweeping his arm outward, he motioned to where several angels had fallen to their knees, looks of profound agony twisting their features. They slumped and their graces began to burst, one after the other.

"They knew the potential cost of victory, Castiel. Can you say the same for the souls you've taken? About the soul of your vessel, your first tainted meal?"

Castiel snarled and attacked. It was inelegant, unplanned, and more than a little animalistic.

"Look at you," Raphael taunted as she easily deflected him. "You've taken in so many of those dirty souls that you're becoming one of them. You're positively smutty. Just one step from becoming a monster yourself. I'll be doing the universe a favor when I smite you. You're unworthy of any measure of His grace."

"Really?" Castiel breathed. He reached inside his jacket and withdrew the Rod. With a twist of his wrist it doubled, then tripled in size. Blossoms, buds, and ripe almonds sprouted along its length as it glowed a faintly phosphorescent blue. "Aaron's Rod finds me worthy," he said.

"Where did you get that?" Raphael demanded, her face showing the tiniest hint of worry.

Smirking, Castiel replied, "Does it really matter?" Tilting his chin up, he said, "Come and fight me, you spineless bitch."

More angels collapsed around them as Raphael hesitated. It was barely a flicker, not even a full second, but Castiel saw it. She was afraid, and a sibilantly whispering part of him reveled in it.

Raphael was dying. Her grace was leaving her faster now, and Castiel was holding himself together with the increasing influx of Purgatory's souls; it was becoming a losing battle for his rival archangel, and Castiel could see the moment Raphael realized it.

Electricity arched between her hands and her eyes glowed as her own grace shown through behind the depleting borrowed pieces.

Without a returned taunt, she focused a blast at Castiel. He ducked, rolled closer, and brought the Rod down upon her outstretched forearm. It snapped under the force of the blow, and Raphael let loose a small noise of pain.

"Do you remember the many uses of the Rod, sister?" Castiel asked, as he spun around and cracked it across the backs of her knees. Raphael fell into a kneeling position, and Castiel spun around again, swinging it up in an arc. Head snapping back, Raphael sprawled to the ground. Castiel stood over her, knowing that his eyes shown with righteous victory and something else, something much less honorable. "Or have you forgotten it is also the Devourer of Serpents?"

He didn't wait for a response. Grasping the Rod with both hands, he thrust it downward. It pierced Raphael's abdomen, and her grace bubbled forth and was absorbed completely by the Rod in one eye-searing bright flash. Her vessel twitched once and was still. With a grunt he extracted the Rod and faced the battle before him. Those angels left alive that were Raphael's forces were collapsing as they writhed in pain, the pieces of their grace that had been attached to Raphael being absorbed by the Rod as well. And as long as he held the Rod, their graces were his to command.

"Leave this place," he commanded, his true voice rolling like thunder amongst them. As one, they all left the earthly realm. Castiel wasn't sure where they had gone, but at the moment he didn't care. Raphael and his angelic forces were defeated, but that was not the only battle being waged, not now.

**o - o - o - o**

_Shit just got real_, Bobby thought was the phrase most appropriate to the situation.

The maddened souls of Eve's children were heading straight for them, now that the golems and Behemoth were gone. They needed blood and the hunters that survived had plenty.

They'd lost four hunters, including Holly. He'd seen her fall, guts ripped open by an angel blade before she could turn her flame-thrower spray in the right direction. She went down in a spill of blood and oil. She'd lain there for about ten minutes, then sat up screaming like an animal for about ten seconds. Then burst into flames.

Bobby had seen it all, he thought. That was something he should have known better than to think. In his line of business, there was always more to see. Unfortunately.

The flames died down five seconds later. And Holly stood up, looking perfectly fine, though naturally shaken. She looked around, baffled, and seemed to understand what had happened if the grin that split her face was an indication. That might not be a good thing.

But a sudden drill sergeant attitude took over and she started yelling commands to everyone around her, hunters and angels alike, and damned if they didn't obey. She was, smartly, pulling everyone back to the cabin. Even Dean followed her lead, and that was saying something considering the lunkhead was so fond of making himself the de facto leader. Bobby turned and trotted as fast as he could with the group.

She argued with Dean for a minute – good luck with that- and when Castiel swooped in soon after, she starting arguing with him too. They were arguing with a woman who'd just come back from the dead in a ball of fire. Bobby wasn't a fool, he knew what was going on. But he didn't know if they were gonna treat her like a monster or the hunter she'd always been (and apparently was trying to still be).

Hard to tell what the decision was, even when she walked outside into the approaching swarm of souls. A few seconds later there was a boom loud enough to rock the cabin and send everyone scrambling away from the windows. Well, that answered that question.

Until she walked back in a few minutes later, grinning ear to ear. Clearly being immortal was working for her.

Bobby had seen a lot, and he'd come to accept that even non-human creatures weren't always monsters. Cas was the best example. Maybe Holly could be another one.

**o - o - o - o**

"Sam is out there, Cas, we can't just leave him!"

"Eve will not physically harm Sam, Dean." Castiel snapped at him. "He knows what he's doing." In a softer voice, he added, "This is part of the plan. He's talking to her."

The cabin wouldn't hold long against the monsters battering at it. The golems were long gone with the Behemoth. But the souls of the Mother's children howled and tore at the building. No hunter could slay them in their incorporeal forms, these were not simple human ghosts. Even the worst poltergeist paled in comparison to their fury. And with their targeted enemy, the Behemoth, destroyed, they turned their rage on everyone left.

"But the souls-"

"Are hers to command. Sam knows the risk, but he asked to try, and I could not deny him that."

They could not win against this many. The remaining angels of Castiel's troops were all injured and unable to zap away, or to take any human with them. They were well and truly trapped.

Castiel pressed his head against the wall of the cabin and closed his eyes. Dean was still muttering in worry, but for once Cas ignored him. He couldn't do this anymore. He was so tired, he was gravely injured, he was covered in unmentionable gore. And he was losing hope. He couldn't save the love of his life after all.

Then the amulet pulsed, just once, warm and comforting. Castiel shivered. He knew it was time. The archangel must lock the gate and seal Purgatory. He was the angel… and the lock.

His fear gripped his heart tight, and for a moment he felt as Christ in Gethsemene. _Father, take this cup away from me._ Again, his hubris, comparing himself to God's human son. Humans came first, angels were made to serve…

Even with free will, he didn't have any choices left.

Dean was shaking him now, finally turning him around to continue shouting about Sam, When Dean saw the resignation mixed with determination on Castiel's face, he froze. "What's going on with you, Cas?"

Softly, just loud enough for Dean to hear, Cas said, "_'The righteous man who begins it is the only one who can end it.'_ I said that to you once, Dean. Now it's my turn. Am I righteous, Dean?"

"Cas, you're scaring me, man," Dean spoke low and worried.

Castiel barely blinked as he pushed Dean's hands away and stepped past him. He reached Balthazar, who'd been glaring at them the entire time. He slipped off his ruined trench, rolled it into a soft ball and handed it to Balthazar, who took it with a concerned expression. As Cas began to unbutton his shirt, Dean moved forward and grabbed his sleeve.

"Cas, what the hell are you doing?" he said frantically. "What are you doing?"

Castiel shrugged Dean's hand off and finished with the buttons, took off the shirt, then his tie, and gave these also to Balthazar, who stared at him with a white face. Dean's shouts for answers went through his head like the wind, he couldn't listen. Didn't dare. He turned though, to look at the hunter. And saw Dean's eyes pop.

"My amulet?" he gasped. "How the hell did you get that?"

"God," Castiel said tonelessly. "He sent me a message and I know what I must do."

Dean was completely terrified now. This was suicide talk. "No, I won't let you go out there." He paused, amazed at himself. "Not even to get Sammy. You… you're my—"

Castiel softened and looked in his eyes now. "I know. You're mine as well. Only. Ever." He stroked fingers down Dean's cheek. "It doesn't change a thing."

Then Castiel kissed him, achingly, but so fleeting. He pulled away and stared deeply into Dean's eyes. So blue, impossibly blue, they burrowed into Dean's soul so deeply he felt the new sigil throbbing. He could only stare back and beg silently for Cas not to do whatever the hell it was he was planning. He could tell Cas was committing every detail of him to memory. The angel swept his calloused thumb across Dean's lips after kiss.

"I am not God," Castiel said, voice smoke gray in the twilight, "but I will salt her flesh and serve her as a feast for you, Dean. My righteous man. You will rest under the canopy made of her skin, and know peace when this is done."

"Cas," Dean croaked. This was a goodbye. He didn't want a _goodbye_.

He said nothing, was just gone, wings brushing Dean's shoulder and a displacement of air his parting touches.

Released from whatever had held him, Dean shouted at the top of his lungs. "CAS! No, God damn it, no no no," it was a demand and prayer rolled together. And it went unheeded.

Balthazar dropped Cas' clothes and strode toward Dean, and shoved the human hard against the wall.

"This is his choice. _You_ are his choice," the angel sneered, getting right in Dean's face. "You are what he chose, to defy Heaven, to battle and kill his own kind, to suffer and bleed and die for. A pathetic, feeble minded chimpanzee."

Dean shoved back, though it was mostly ineffectual. If Balthazar hadn't been bleeding grace slowly from his abdomen, it wouldn't have worked at all. "Shut your damned mouth! You act like you care so much about Cas, and you're the one – YOU – who turned him into a soul junkie!"

Balthazar laughed bitterly. "Yes, he's not alone there," the angel admitted. "I'm the one who led him into temptation, who brought him to a demon. He believed, so badly, that he could win. I couldn't watch him fail without trying everything that could possibly help."

"That's your excuse? You _poisoned_ him!"

The angel took half a step back. "You poisoned him first, in a way that could never be flushed out of him. You've rotted him to the core, I see that now. He gave it all and went to find more so he could give you that too. He's insane, but he's my brother."

Dean narrowed his eyes. "You're in love with him."

"If I were it would make no difference. He's blind over you. He spent his grace inside you, fucked you with part of himself no human deserves to touch. And he just had to go and put a ring on your finger to top it off." He waved toward Dean's chest. "Signed his name on your soul, signed himself away to you! It 'protects his heart', which is _you_, you twice-damned putrid maggot! Why do you think you came away today without a scratch. Because of _that_."

Dean couldn't even speak. If that's what Cas really did… "God damn it, I'm gonna kick his ass…"

"He won't live long enough for that, you asshole!" Balthazar shrieked and drew his angel blade, swinging at his neck, but missed because he was weakened. "I may not be able to kill you, but who knows, I might get lucky."

Dean flung himself away and reached for the nearest weapon. Sam's damned lance, great, he didn't know how to wield it. But at least it was long enough to keep Balthazar far out of arm's reach as they darted around one another, screaming vile remarks.

The other angels had backed away, refusing to involve themselves. They knew the Righteous Man was not to be harmed. The humans simply cowered.

Balthazar stumbled, his grace leaking badly now, and it seemed he purposely leapt forward onto the lance. Dean, shocked, surged forward and pinned him to the wall.

The angel hung there, grace sputtering like a bug zapper. He coughed normal red blood though, and he grinned through red teeth. "It's all right Dean, I was dying anyway." He held out his blade in a shuddering hand. "Please, do me the great honor. Rest assured, if you don't I will struggle my way off this pole and smite you."

Dean's jaw clenched. He took the blade, and just like with Zachariah, shoved it upward through Balthazar's brain. And, also like last time, he didn't close his eyes. He didn't really care anymore.

For a few moments, Dean was blind. But instead of darkness, he saw white. He blinked and rubbed at his eyes and they began to clear. He saw Balthazar, nothing but a hanging corpse surrounded by blackened silhouettes of wings.

Then he was out the door of the cabin and back into the fray.

The souls whipped around him, trying to bite or slash, but none were able to touch him. It was just as Balthazar said, he was protected. He felt his gut tighten, knowing what this may have cost Cas. He took an experimental swing at the souls with his flaming sword, and while it didn't affect them the same at it had the angels, it seemed to drive them away. Okay, so it was a flaming fly-swatter, but it was better than nothing.

He could barely see through the murky stew of souls. It was like everything out of Purgatory was made of slime or water or fog. Or blood. Dean held his breath when he realized those could be vampire souls. He could have wound up in Purgatory himself if Samuel hadn't saved him. If he ever had the chance, he would thank the old man. Just for that one thing.

Dean saw a larger, darker shape through the swirling mess. It was freaking huge, and he was willing to bet the Mother was there. Which meant Sam was there. So where was Cas?

The souls were thinning out the closer he got to the dark shape, and he could see Cas now. Relief washed through him. Thank God, Cas was still alive. But clearly he was not well. The angel was making his way toward the dark shape, but ponderously, and staggering.

Dean moved a little faster, hoping to catch up. He wanted to shout, but knew that he could be overheard by someone whose attention he didn't need. So he thought, very hard, _Cas I'm here, I'm behind you_.

And it could have been Cas heard him, or it could have just been timing. Because Castiel turned back and faced Dean. And what Dean saw turned his blood into ice. Castiel was gripping souls, those nebulous globs of energy, and they struggled in his hands. As Dean watched in horror, the souls twisted and shriveled, and he could see the energy they were made of… flow into Castiel. He was absorbing them. Eating them.

Castiel's grace expanded in multiple directions and snapped out in tendrils to spear several more souls, and draw them close so he could repeat the process. Dean almost fell to his knees as he watched the macabre vision of his lover destroying and devouring the life force of monsters. And when Castiel turned his head to look directly at Dean, he saw no bright blue eyes. There were black discs where those eyes had been, and black fluid dripped from the corners of the angel's mouth, as though he'd been literally feasting on the souls, had bitten into them and drunk their essence.

Dean did fall then, covering his mouth and shaking his head. _No, Cas_, he begged inside, _it was only supposed to be for energy to win the war. This is not you, it's not…_

There was a flash of light from god-knew-where, the sort that had preceded the two times Dean saw Cas' wings. But this time… it was so much more.

Flickering in and out of Dean's vision was everything Castiel was, like a hologram. Turn one way and you see Jimmy Novak's vessel, turn the other and you see the enormity of Castiel's true angel form. It lasted only a second, but it would be burned into Dean's brain forever.

It was terrible and beautiful. Burning white flames hundreds of feet high, streaked with blue and green lights. Multiple wings wide as the sky, black, indigo, blood red. Smoky images of animal heads, a lamb, a cat, others unclear. And eyes, a dozen on each head, glowing blue and hot as stars. They were steady and unblinking and that one thing was so very Cas that Dean nearly wept.

But the white flames were stuttering, as though a wind was trying to extinguish them. Inside the flames were the souls of monsters, tinting the whiteness to a dirty gray. He was filling up, it was taking him over. Castiel was gorging himself on venomous evil creatures and enjoying it.

Dean shook himself, breaking free of the frozen horror and stepped slowly toward Castiel. The angel stood still, souls dangling from both hands, and watched the human impassively and seeming without recognition. His flat black eyes may have been looking at Dean or a million miles beyond him. The black liquid dripping from his mouth was slicking his chest, sticking to the amulet. Which glowed like a coal, burning his skin.

God was here, in this scene of horror? Dean felt his heart drop to his stomach. If God wanted this, he wanted God dead.

"Cas," he entreated, "please, stop. Just… please." He didn't even specify, there was too much he was begging for.

Castiel twitched, and shook his head as though trying to clear it. The souls in his hands were almost drained now, and Dean could see the darkness pooling under Cas' skin. He was full to the brim, and the blackness was even leaking from his fingertips, draining downward as though from a soaked sponge. He licked his lips, smearing the black liquid across his teeth. But when he looked back up at Dean, his eyes were clear and blue again. "Dean?" he rasped.

"Yeah, yeah it's me, Cas," Dean came closer, not caring what happened now. "Please, man, stop this…"

"I can't stop, Dean. I have to stop her." He turned his head toward the enormous dark shape a hundred yards from them. "She won't go quietly. She's not listening to Sam, and her children are… everywhere."

"That doesn't mean you need to eat them!"

Cas looked at him with confusion. "But I do. My grace is dying. Raphael infected me with a mystical toxin, and it's killing me. I'd already be dead if not for the souls."

"Oh fuck," Dean groaned. "We'll find a way to help you, Cas, just please, let's go."

"Dean, stop." Castiel said softly, tilting his head. Even with the gore splattering his chin and chest, that expression was heart-breakingly beautiful. "I'm doing what I must. And you need to leave while you can. Sam's diversion has worked and I'm strong enough now to finish." He raised a hand and pushed Dean away with a burst of power. _"Go."_

There was no choice, Dean was flung back and away, landing on his ass, and rolling across the desert floor.

**o - o - o - o**

Castiel pulled Aaron's rod from his pants pocket, and twisted til it sprang to glowing life. He was exhausted, even filled with souls. This wouldn't take long, thankfully.

He approached the Mother from behind. She was in her primordial creature form, best described as a deep blue-black Lochness monster, and poised on the edge of the great abyss that was Purgatory, her children's souls whipping in and out like tornados. She chuckled, and it reverberated across the desert.

"Castiel," she said calmly to the angel so far below her giant head. "You think you can throw me back into the pit? Really, Castiel, your arrogance knows no bounds. You come to me gorged on the souls of my children and swinging a shiny stick and think it will be as easy as all that?" Eve laughed as she snapped her serpentine neck down and snatched the staff in her boulder sized teeth. "Pretty toy," she huffed as it landed in front of her. She glanced at it in a cursory manner and then pushed it aside as if it were a worthless bauble and she a spoiled debutante.

"Leave us, Sam," Castiel ordered, but Sam balked.

"Cas, I'm not going to-"

"You know what has to happen here, Sam." Meeting Sam's eyes, Castiel said, "I was the one to start it. I must finish it." At Sam's continued hesitance, Cas threw a glance over his shoulder and said one word. "Dean."

It was enough; Sam understood immediately. No nods or last glances were shared. He simply left, choosing Dean over both Castiel and Eve. _Thank you, Sam_, Castiel said, and got a brush of his brother's warmth in return. Then the Leviathan was speaking.

"I'm interested to know what you think is going to happen now, Castiel. You can't control me. Even with all of my children's souls tainting your grace, you just don't have the juice." Eve smirked. "Poor boy. You never had a Mother, only a Father. I would not have abandoned you as he did. I would not have tested you. But while you're beyond my sphere, _the boys_," she stressed mockingly, "are not. I hold all the power here. I'm going to kill every single one of your precious little humans. Well," she paused, "maybe not the Winchesters. Dean was such a beautiful vampire while it lasted." Her eyes took on an unholy gleam, "And Sam would be pleased if I let his brother live, wouldn't he?"

"Of course, soon that might not be an issue. As soon as I get his pesky soul removed again, it will be just like old times. Except we'll be the ones making the decisions, not his misguided brothers, and certainly not your absent God." She paused in her speech; Dean was right about yet another thing, and Castiel didn't know why he was surprised. Dean was right about many things. But what he was right about now was this: Villains love monologuing. It was, one could say, their fatal flaw.

"What...what are you doing?"

Blood oozed down Castiel's fingers in thick rivulets. An angry gash on his wrist showed where he'd bitten down to open his own skin. When Eve recovered from her confusion enough to take another step forward he lunged, spitting a mouthful of blood on her leathery hide. Eve sputtered, aghast, eyes wide and disbelieving.

"No, you don't have the power. You wouldn't. It will kill you."

But he was, and it was too late to stop now; he'd marked her. While Eve was frantically wiping at her skin, Castiel took a deep breath and, with the same hand he'd bitten, reached inside himself and grasped for his grace. A scream spilled up his throat, his true voice vibrating with agony. Eve charged him, but she was much too late to stop him now. Castiel bared his teeth in a rictus grin as monster-soul tainted black blood gushed out of his abdomen, sluicing down his pants and painting his skin. It hurt, more than he'd ever imagined it could, more than anything he'd ever experienced in the totality of his existence, and for the briefest moment he wavered as the blackness oozed out of him and began mixing with his vessel's red blood.

Through the pain came a memory of Dean; it wasn't the sort of memory he'd ever expected to have of his human, in those moments during the war that he'd allowed himself the macabre luxury of imagining his own death. It wasn't of their coupling, or of the hunter's mouth on his own, or even when he'd first encountered his soul in Hell. Instead it was a quiet moment where Dean had not even known Castiel was present. The man had been sleeping in the driver's seat of the Impala, his jacket's collar pulled up to ward off the chill, a much-battered road map slipping from his lax fingers. Sam lay slumped in the seat next to him, head resting on the passenger side window. Castiel had gone to Dean with orders on finding and preventing the destruction of a seal, but looking at the human he'd raised from perdition, he found he couldn't bring himself to disturb him. It was the first time Castiel could recall Dean looking peaceful. That was what he was doing this for: to give Dean the peace he deserved.

His hand sank deeper into his abdomen and with a snarl and a swirl of his fingers, he grasped his grace and pulled.

It slid out of him in one long wet plop with a gush of bright red, human looking blood and trembled in his fist. If a holding a human soul was similar to a nuclear reactor, then the grace of an archangel who had eaten untold-numbers of monster souls was like trying to palm a burgeoning super-nova. Castiel screamed a ragged laugh, blood bubbling out of his vessel's shredded throat. Eve was almost upon him.

Using the last of his strength, Castiel drew back his arm and threw his grace into the mouth of the beast.

**o - o - o - o**

Dean lay stunned on his back, staring up at a sky the color of peaches. It was like a low burning fire. He could hear roaring and squealing from somewhere distant, but couldn't understand what it meant.

Then Sam was barreling toward him, shouting his name, telling him to run. Dean tried to stand, reached out a hand as Sam got closer.

The whole world was a flash of endless glorious impossible white.


	9. Epilogue

Rating, warnings and summary can be found at Chapter 1.

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><p><span>EPILOGUE<span>

The sun was comfortably warm on Dean's face. A soft breeze blew through the trees stretching over his head, rustling the leaves. It was peaceful, and he felt he could lie here forever.

Sam groaned somewhere beside him. Dean opened his eyes a sliver to see hints of clear sky through a dense forest canopy.

A canopy that shouldn't be there. He remembered the sounds of battle and gore caking his body combining with the unforgiving harshness of a barren desert. There should be no trees, no gentle winds. Dean sat up.

And everywhere, spilled across every inch of ground, were flowers. The stems were arched over, almost curling back on themselves, and underneath that arch hung multiple bell-shaped flowers. They were a brilliant shade of bright blue, the same as—

Dean choked. "Cas?" he called out, pushing himself to his feet. The forest stretched out around him as far as he could see. It appeared to be ancient; some trees were splotched with pungent moss and others with invasive curling ivy. Dean looked left, then right. Sam lay against a tree, eyes fluttering, then opening wide.

Sam groaned again, and scooted upward, looking around in wonder. "Where are we? Where did we go?" He stared in confusion, then squinted at the flowers. "Are these... bluebells?"

"Cas?" Dean tried again, voice growing hoarse and softer. No answer.

Legs too weak to support him, Dean collapsed, crushing dozens of the bluebells. The smell of rich earth and growing things invaded his senses. A shaking hand reached out to the nearest tree and his fingers trailed down its bark. It looked as unchangeable and timeless as… Anna's oak tree.

The thought was not random, not really. It was Dean realizing what this place was, what it meant.

His own voice echoed in his head, a memory:

_So grace ground zero. It's not destruction, it's..._

And Anna's certain reply:

_Pure creation._

"No," he whispered, breath hitching. "No," he pleaded.

"No!" he screamed until there was no more oxygen in his lungs and he had to stop, gasping and sobbing on the ground.

There was a gaping emptiness in the spot where Cas had engraved his grace upon Dean's soul. An even emptier place in his soul where Cas had, he realized, always been. The handprint scar on his shoulder throbbed in time with his heartbeat.

No more nerdy little dude in a trenchcoat. No more uncomfortably long looks into blue eyes. No more badass angel mofo who defied heaven for the sake of a human who would never deserve that much faith. No more touches of sweet grace flowing against his soul. No more—

"Cas," he mouthed, a broken denial.

The war was over, their souls were their own. Purgatory was closed, the monsters defeated. They were victorious.

He couldn't bear to look out upon the forest for a moment longer, to see the curved graceful stems of beautiful flowers he'd gotten in exchange for Castiel. He couldn't.

Curling upon himself, Dean pulled his knees up to his chest and sobbed.

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><p><strong><em>Author's Notes: <em>**

_Bluebell forests are beautiful ancient woods that are scattered through Europe, arguably the most famous are in England. Bluebells themselves are said to symbolize humility, gratitude, and everlasting love. They are also called Dead Man's Bells._

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><p><strong><em>Read the sequel: "Somewhere to Elsewhere"<em>**


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